


Lance's Guide to Picking Up Hitchhikers

by bwyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: "gay mutant road trip" you have no idea how much i want to add that, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, F/M, Hitchhiking, M/M, Road Trips, bi lance and gay keith and ace pidge here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: "That... is a terrible idea.""Exactly, which is why I'm doing it and you're not going to tell mom."His sister looks at him with resignation, but drops the keys with their ratty dolphin plushie into his hands. "Rest in pieces, baby bro."–––– an AU in which Lance inherits the family's much loved Volkswagen bus and road trips from the west to east coast, picking up hitchhikers to fill the empty seats for five days of F U N.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> BWYN WHY you may be yelling right now  
> I'm certainly yelling it at myself
> 
> I saw one (1) piece of artwork of the team roadtripping, and like, who am I to IGNORE MUSE????(end me) this was only supposed to be like maybe a 15k thing but then I was like dudebro(myself) you need more TIME for FRIENDSHIPS to BLOSSOM so I figured out what the longest roadtrip could be on one road. Then I was like why tf didn't I make it a canadian road trip since... that is... where I live??? I am canadian?????? it's a mystery, coulda been a vancouver to toronto thing but nah.
> 
> anyway this isn't much of a guide at all because lance is like "k lesgo" like there is no technique here.  
> also just realized I write in Lance's POV like a lot??why???because I love him and he's fun to write and I get to pull a lot of "usually someone wouldn't do this but since it's Lance" ʘ‿ʘ

It’s nine in the morning; the sun is shining warmly, there’s the barest of breezes, birds are twittering in the trees, and Lance is standing in front of his older sister’s loyal 1978 Volkswagen bus. It sits by the curb outside his family home, speckled shadows cast by lush trees falling across it. His sister stands with him, arms folded across her chest and the keys to the vehicle spinning lazily around one finger. She’s appraising Lance as much as he is the car, with its powder blue paint job – marred by history in the form of dents and scratches – and the large logo like a declaration at its front.

“I love it,” says Lance, as if he hasn’t said as much since his sister gifted him the bus. He walks up to it and languidly spreads himself out like a starfish on its front. “You and I are going to have so many adventures, Fluffy.”

“Ah, that’s another thing,” cuts in his sister, before Lance can start serenading or something. “You have to give her a new name.”

Lance peals his face off the windshield to look at her. “What? Why?”

“When papá first got her, he called her Delfia. When he passed her on to our brother, she was Roxie–“

“Rockatansky, actually.”

“– and she was Fluffy with me. You have to give her a new name.”

“But Fluffy is a _cute_ name.”

“It’s tradition, baby bro,” she says with a huff, “You can spend the next five days thinking it over.”

Lance responds with a noncommittal hum. He walks around the side of the bus, fingertips brushing the chrome handle. The vehicle isn’t a stranger to him – he’s sat inside it on multiple occasions, and all of them are memories he’s fond of – but now that the bus is _his_ , well. That’s another story. Suddenly he can feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders: paying for gas, bringing her into the shop, taking care of her if something goes wrong. All of it is in Lance’s hands now, and even though he knows he can call up any member of his family that had owned this vehicle for help if need be, he can still feel the pressure.

But that’s also what makes it an _adventure_ – his first trip in the bus, and he’s driving three thousand miles from his family home in Seattle, all the way to where he’s going to school in New York.

Of course, it wouldn’t _really_ be an adventure if he didn’t make something special of it.

“You haven’t been on a road trip like this before,” his sister is saying, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, “And I know you’ll probably get super bored. You can call us up anytime, but just remember this baby doesn’t have Bluetooth. You’ll have to go on speakerphone or something.”

Lance hooks an arm over the side mirror and grins at his sister. The expression is a premonition, and his sister recognizes it by the way her lips purse.

“I won’t get bored,” declares Lance breezily, giving the bus a pat, “Because why would I roll this beaut from coast to coast, _alone_ , when she’s got –“ He peeks through the window, lips forming a silent count – “six empty seats?”

His sister is already shaking her head. “If I don’t hear it, I don’t need to worry about it. Nope. _No_.”

But Lance is already continuing, his grin widening as his sister turns her tortured gaze skywards. “I think I can fill up those seats in three thousand miles.”

“ _Coño_ ,” breathes his sister, continuing in muttered Spanish in an attempt at distracting herself, “ _If I can’t hear you, I won’t be held responsible. You are an adult. Not my problem._ ”

“I’m going to pick up hitchhikers.”

“…”

“At least five. Maybe I can fit six? Nah, too cramped. They’ll need space for their stuff.”

“…”

Lance twirls away from the bus, coming to a flourishing halt before his sister. He beams at her, careless and excited.

She sighs. “That… is a terrible idea.”

"Exactly, which is why I'm doing it and you're not going to tell mom."

His sister looks at him with resignation, but drops the keys with their ratty dolphin plushie into his hands. "Rest in pieces, baby bro."

His smile widens impossibly, hands cupped around the keys that mean he is now well and truly the owner of the beautiful beast sitting just off his parents’ driveway. Despite his awful decision, his excitement is contagious, and as he does one final check to be sure all his possessions are packed up, his sister fights the smile working its way onto her face.

Then, with a hug and a kiss, Lance is behind the wheel of his as-yet-unnamed Volkswagen bus, peeling out onto the road that will be his home for the next five days.

It’s a bit odd being in the driver’s seat now, when all Lance had known were the seats in the back. He is familiar with all the little eccentricities of the vehicle, though, and even though he can’t see most of them now, he knows they’re there. The ceiling is a canvas of scratched images and words and initials. Lance himself used a key when he was younger to etch a barely recognizable squirtle near the bottom of the door. There is a recreation of Monet’s water lily painting on the back of the middle seats. Someone had taken clear packaging tape in an attempt to laminate it. All the holes that accumulated over time in the upholstery have been covered up with squares and circles of random fabrics like a patchwork quilt, and there’s an armrest velcroed to the middle where there wasn’t one before. Extra cupholders have been forcefully attached to the walls of the bus, and one hangs forlornly from behind the driver’s seat, unable to carry anything heavier than a small coffee. The best part of the bus, in Lance’s opinion, is the sunroof his older brother cut out of the ceiling. He’d spent hours watching the stars during late night drives. Before leaving he had even polished both sides until there was nary a speck to be seen.

Somehow, all of this is now Lance’s, and he plans on making his mark before the bus leaves his possession. Which, of course, means piling in every hitchhiker he sees along the interstate and not getting axe-murdered. But that’s where the fun lies, after all!

Lance tightens his grip on the steering wheel, a giddy grin working its way across his face. His mother wasn’t too fond of letting him drive the entire width of the United States, especially in a vehicle that’s well into its prime, but given that his father, older brother _and_ older sister all vouched for the reliability of the bus, she’d eventually given in. Certainly, all the snacks she’d made and that now sit in a cooler in the trunk are just an added bonus.

The suburbs are far behind him as Lance steers the bus onto the expressway, passing over the bridge to the island and then beyond. Whipping past the windows are all familiar buildings, stores, parks – this skyline is one he’s seen, but now Lance sees it all from the front windshield, not the sides. He’s the one switching lanes, picking up speed, feeling the slight tremble of the hefty frame beneath him. He turns on the radio, boosts the volume, and soon enough he’s belting along to every song on the top 40 hits that comes blasting on.

* * *

The first hitchhiker Lance sees is outside of Seattle, forty minutes into his trip. With the city behind him, the trees dominate the scenery, a thick belt splitting both directions of the expressway from each other. He’s already passed the casino, and the first small towns, and he’s passing through another where the buildings are obscured by the trees when he sees the figure avec backpack walking right beside the barrier between shoulder and ditch. Lance can see a few houses where the trees are more sparse, but the man is looking at the oncoming vehicles instead of walking down towards the suburbs. Just as Lance is about to pass in the bus, the man lifts his hand, thumb jutting towards the sky.

Lance nearly slams on the brakes in his excitement. Nerves have his stomach clenching, both anticipating and dreading his first meeting with the hitchhiker even as he flicks on the turning signal and slows to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. He’s pretty sure hitchhiking on the interstate is illegal – or at least frowned _deeply_ upon – which tells him either this guy doesn’t give a flying fuck, he’s desperate, or he has no clue about hitchhiking etiquette (of which Lance also has no idea).

With the hazards going, Lance sticks an arm out his window to beckon the hitchhiker forward. When the guy notices, he starts jogging the distance between them. Lance checks oncoming traffic before hopping out of the bus and towards the back to swing open the trunk. There’s room for a couple bags, he thinks, but the other potential passengers will have to stuff them by their legs.

Lance turns to face the hitchhiker when he’s finally within speaking distance. The guy is taller than Lance, and frankly, kind of intimidating. His shoulders are broad, his chest wide, and despite the ill-fitting shirt, Lance can tell he’s _built_. It makes Lance overtly aware of how he himself looks lankier with his floaty shawl-like sweater draped on pointy shoulders and lean arms. Despite all the intimidation factors, the hitchhiker’s got a hesitant but friendly smile, bright against a brown face, and lifts a hand to wave shyly.

“Hello,” greets the stranger, “Um, I… to be honest, I’ve never hitchhiked before so…”

The immediate admission does wonders for Lance’s nerves. The tension that had coiled into a knot between his shoulders loosens a fraction. His shoulders drop until Lance appears more relaxed, and the stranger’s smile somehow becomes even friendlier.

“And I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker before,” admits Lance with a grin of his own, “I figure I should probably be more specific about who I pick up, so…”

Lance’s gaze flits up and down the young man, who looks even more nervous. Then Lance nods.

“Are you, by any chance, homophobic?” asks Lance seriously.

The man stares, his thick brows coming together. He looks mortified at the idea as he shakes his head furiously. “Of course not!”

Then he pauses, frown uncertain. “Are you?”

Lance bursts out laughing at that, forced to lean against the open door. “ _Me?_ Oh, hell no. I’m bi as fuck.  I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t willingly sticking myself with an asshat, y’feel?”

“Oh.” The stranger’s expression clears, and he nods in understanding. “I get that. I’m also not an axe-murderer, if you were wondering that as well.”

“I’m _so glad_ we could get by that awkward _will he kill me or won’t he?_ thing. I’m Lance, by the way. Just chuck your stuff in here.”

The man laughs, the sound deep and relaxed. “Nice to meet you. I’m Hunk.”

When his stuff is put away, Lance closes the door and invites Hunk up to the front passenger seat. Hunk becomes nervous again, uncertain in the way he closes the door gently and glances around before arranging his limbs. Lance never really had that problem – when someone would invite him somewhere, tell him to make himself at home, he would always take it at face value. Now, with the bus, he figures he should try to extend that same offer of comfort to his first passenger.

“She’s a tough one,” says Lance, patting the dashboard affectionately before bringing the bus back onto the highway, “You don’t have to treat her like she’s glass.”

“Oh, sorry,” says Hunk, “I just – I know some people are _really_ protective of their cars. I don’t want to, y’know, scuff something. And then have you axe me.”

“Nah, the axe is in the back. Too far for me to grab.”

Hunk laughs again. It makes Lance feel like he just helped save a small animal from the cold or something, as if he’s done something good for humanity’s karma by making this big guy laugh.

Over the next hour, Lance learns a lot about Hunk. The good thing about being stuck in a confined space with a stranger is that, if you go about it right, there’s an endless stream of things to talk about. It comes easy to Lance to get someone talking – it just starts with him talking about himself first, and letting the openings take care of themselves. So Lance tells Hunk about the bus, some of the history behind her, and why Lance is taking her across the country. In return, Hunk tells Lance that he’s a mechanic, but will be taking part-time engineering courses at a school on the east coast.

Which is also how Lance learns that Hunk is going to New York city, too.

“Man, I really hope we don’t end up hating each other,” says Lance, “Imagine being stuck with each other for five days, secretly plotting murder the whole time.”

“Well, I know roughly where the axe is now,” says Hunk to a booming laugh from Lance. “But I don’t think that’ll be a problem. You seem like a cool guy. I mean, you can tell a lot about a person by their car, and this thing is well-loved.”

“Oh she is.” Lance pats the dashboard again with a fond smile. “I can’t remember how many times I fell asleep in the back, using coats as pillows.”

After that hour, Lance feels like he can trust Hunk. The guy is friendly with a face like an open book. It isn’t difficult for Lance to navigate conversation with him, shooting quick glances to check if certain things he says might’ve offended the big guy. Lance learns that Hunk is the type of person to go out of his way to avoid making a person feel uncomfortable, which is probably why he tries to make himself compact and occupy less space in the vehicle. Lance appreciates the sentiment, but he also doesn’t want Hunk to be uncomfortable, so he decides to prove to Hunk that for the next five days, the bus is his home as much as it is Lance’s.

* * *

Nearly two hours in, Hunk spots the next hitchhiker.

“I think I see a thumb!” declares Hunk, pointing wildly. Lance already explained his plan to the guy, who had the gall to look slightly concerned until Lance pointed out that his plan was the only reason Hunk was currently getting a ride.

The figure Hunk is gesturing at is the exact opposite of the man himself. Short, narrow, more like a child. For a moment, Lance is uncertain whether it’s actually a hitchhiker rather than just a child playing chicken on the highway or something, but they _do_ have a massive duffle bag slung across their shoulders, so the former is more plausible.

The two discuss as Lance signals to bring the bus onto the shoulder of the highway.

“Okay, so, besides potential serial killer and or homophobe, what else should I ask in my interview?” asks Lance.

“How far they’re going?” suggests Hunk, “I mean, I kind of forgot to mention, and you didn’t ask.”

“True.”

“And maybe reason for hitchhiking?”

“Hello, small child, are you running away from home?”

“Exactly,” nods Hunk.

Lance shakes his head. “I doubt a runaway would admit to that.”

“Unless they were a tiny kid,” retorts Hunk, looking out the side view mirror to appraise the little figure approaching.

“Yikes, I don’t want to be labeled a kidnapper and be the subject of a manhunt across the country or something.” Even as Lance says it, his mind is supplying him with the movie-quality action shots to match the story.

“I’d really like it if I wasn’t an accomplice to a crime,” says Hunk mildly.

“I’ll see what I can do about that.”

Lance once more hops out of the vehicle to greet this newest stranger. They’re short, definitely, but there’s something about them that has Lance on his toes. Probably something to do with the way sharp eyes regard him from beneath a ball cap, as if judging him to see if he’s worthy to take them up.

“Hey there,” greets Lance first, “You need a ride?”

“Yeah,” says the hitchhiker, “You an axe-murderer?”

“I–“ Lance breaks off with a splutter. “Isn’t that my line?”

They shrug, pulling off the cap. Dark strawberry blonde hair, cut in a rough bob, comes free to surround a youthful face with intelligent eyes. Lance can already tell he’ll have his work cut out for him in order to get any sort of bullshit past this one.

“I’m Katie, but you can call me Pidge.” An eyebrow cocks. “You?”

“Lance,” he says obediently, then jerks his thumb towards Hunk, who’s leaning out the passenger side window with a friendly wave. “That guy’s Hunk. He’s a hitchhiker, too – which brings me to my first question: are you homophobic?”

Pidge lifts a hand towards Hunk, then blinks at Lance as she lowers it again. “Homophobic? Fuck no. Why?”

“’Cause I’m bi and I don’t need that shit around me.”

“Right. Well. I’m ace, so if you’re–“

“No, no,” says Lance, waving his hands in front of him, “I’m not an asshat either. We’re both part of the ghost-spectrum. Phantoms gotta stick together.”

Pidge appraises him, but she doesn’t seem like she’s going to tear his throat out, and then she nods and some tension leaves the line of her shoulders. “What about the other guy?”

Lance waves away her question. “He’s got the vibe of a pure-hearted straight ally figuring himself out. Nothing to worry about.”

“Good.”

Turning towards the bus, Lance opens up the trunk. “How far do you need to go?”

“I’m headed to New York state,” says Pidge as she takes the backpack off and passes it off to Lance to pack up, “So as far as you’re headed east is good.”

“Won’t be a problem,” grins Lance. The door is closed and he shows her how to give the handle on the passenger door a wrench so it opens at its smoothest. Then he’s sliding back into the driver’s seat and looking over his shoulder at her. “I’m headed to New York city, and so’s Hunk. It’s gonna be a party!”

As with Hunk, Lance employs his method of talking about himself before allowing his guests to speak up in the gaps of silence he strategically provides. It’s easier with Hunk there as well. His open face and personality soften some of the edges that Pidge has going on, and soon enough she’s leaning forward between the driver’s and front passenger’s seat to talk.

Pidge has a scholarship for computer programming on the east coast, and despite also having an opportunity in her hometown’s university – incidentally where they’d picked her up – she wasn’t interested in staying there. Her older brother as well had left the state to study, and while Pidge is adamant that she isn’t following her brother, she admits that he’d given her the courage to head out on her own.

“Do your parents know you’re hitchhiking to school?” asks Hunk.

Pidge snorts a laugh. “Not a chance. I said I’d sorted out my own transportation and they figured I’d gotten a bus or something.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Too stuffy, expensive, and I kind of just wanted to wing something before I end up tied down with class.”

“You a daredevil?” asks Lance.

“Nah,” says Pidge, “Doesn’t mean I don’t like a bit of adventure, though.”

* * *

After eating lunch in some place called Ritzville that Lance drops one too many cracker jokes about, he’s been on the road with two strangers for four hours. The radio is replaying the hit list, but the volume has been lowered in the face of their conversation. It’s weird and refreshing getting to know people from the ground up, even moreso when it’s two people that also know nothing about each other.

It only gets more interesting when their group of three becomes four a little under an hour from where they finished lunch. This time, however, it isn’t a lone figure wandering down the shoulder of the expressway. There’s already a car on the shoulder, but a tall someone is definitely jutting their thumb up, so Lance pulls over for the third time, several car-lengths ahead of the vehicle flashing its hazards.

“What d’you guys think?” asks Lance, twisting in his seat to consult his passengers.

“Their car is broken down,” muses Hunk, “Are they going to ditch someone to take care of it while the rest go ahead?”

“Dick move,” says Pidge, “If that’s the case, ditch ‘em.”

“Now I _did_ decide I’d pick up whoever until the bus is full,” begins Lance.

“Not true,” interjects Pidge, “You’ve got your interview questions.”

“Ah, that’s true.”

“Well, go interview him,” says Hunk before leaning out the window and giving the guy approaching them a wave.

Lance takes a peek through the rearview mirror at their newest prospective passenger. He knows there’s potential for a problem when he registers the broad shoulders, the tapered waist and the _arms_.

“Shit, he’s a Dorito,” breathes Lance.

“What?”

“Nothing,” mumbles Lance as he gathers himself and pushes open the door.

Almost immediately, there’s the blast of a horn as a car zips past. The air following the vehicle whips Lance’s shawl around him and there’s hair in his eyes despite being pretty sure his hair isn’t even _long enough_ –

“Are you okay?”

Well, shit. The guy is hesitating on the shoulder, brows pulled together with concern even as Lance shuts the driver side door and tries to loosen up as he skirts around the bus to the back.

“Yeah, yeah, totally,” says Lance, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears.

The problem, though, isn’t his near brush with death, but rather the fact that this guy is god damn gorgeous. He obviously hits the gym often by the state of his arms – who’s he kidding, Lance can see the evidence of fitness in every inch of the guy. There’s a scar going laterally across the bridge of his nose, but the ruggedness of the scar coupled with his white forelock is displaced by the kind expression. He extends a hand, to which Lance stares at for a moment before grasping it.

“I’m Shiro,” says the man that has no idea that he’s the icon of all of Lance’s teenage fantasies, “Thanks for stopping. My buddy’s car broke down, for good this time maybe, and I don’t have time to hang around.”

“Right, right.” Lance nods in understanding. “Well – ah, I’m Lance, by the way – um, right, so I’ve got a couple others headed east. We’re all pretty much going to New York, so you can come with us if you’re headed in that direction.”

The relief that falls over Shiro’s expression works in the same way that Hunk’s laugh does – as if Lance just gained all of humanity another karma point.

“Fantastic,” says Shiro, “Where I need to be is close to the city.”

“Right, great,” says Lance, and then inwardly grimaces, “Uh, I just need to ask one thing.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows in confusion, but nods.

Suddenly, asking has become a lot more embarrassing. “You’re not, um, skeeved by uh… gay people by any chance?  Or um, specifically a bi dude and an ace girl.”

Lance wonders if the asphalt may spontaneously open up and drag him down to try and explain to the devil himself why he didn’t just blurt out the same rehearsed question he’d presented to Hunk and Pidge. Instead, his stomach is churning in embarrassment.

But Shiro grins, understanding, and shakes his head. “No, I can’t say I am, ah, _skeeved_.”

“Nice,” says Lance, “Cool.” _Just shut up already, Lance_. “Right, so, there’s not much space in the trunk, but you can shove things under the seats.”

Swallowing his humiliation, Lance helps Shiro carry some of his bags over to the bus. He has a bit more than Hunk and Pidge, but it’s spread out over a few smaller bags rather than one massive one. Shiro’s friends thank Lance for helping him out, and Lance returns to the bus as they say good-bye to each other.

“You good?” asks Hunk, taking in Lance’s blank expression.

“Suddenly I’m hyperaware of all my faults,” deadpans Lance.

Pidge leans over the back of the seat to watch Shiro as he walks towards the bus. “So is he nice on top of hot?”

“Yes.”

“Scary.”

“A monster.”

“He’s still got time to fuck up.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’ve talked to him for, what, two minutes?” Hunk snorts. He pauses for a moment, as if realizing he may have been too familiar, and adds, “He can’t be perfect forever.”

Lance stares ahead. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

And they do when Pidge opens up the door for Shiro to climb in beside her. Introductions are smooth, easy, and conversation after that even moreso as they get back on their way. While it was simple talking to Pidge and Hunk, it’s _easier_ with Shiro there. He asks questions where Lance leaves gaps. He seems genuinely interested in anything they say, and he’s polite, but not to the point where he’s stiff. The guy radiates _kindness_ , and even Pidge shooting off personal questions doesn’t phase him.

“D’you have Waardenburg syndrome?” she asks, eyes intent on his face.

When Lance looks through the rearview mirror to try and peek at Shiro’s expression, he only sees patient understanding.

“Yeah, type two,” he replies. There’s no self-conscious twitch, no hand raising to touch his white forelock.

“Your eyes, though?”

“It’s hard to tell, but one is dark green, not brown.” And then he’s obediently staring over Pidge’s shoulder as she leans in to get a good look.

“Oh, you weren’t kidding!” exclaims Pidge, looking at Shiro from this angle and that like he’s a sculpture.

“Um, Pidge,” begins Hunk, as uncertain as Lance whether Shiro may be uncomfortable with her prying.

But Shiro shoots a grin at them, even meeting Lance’s gaze briefly through the mirror. “It’s not a problem. I’m also partially deaf in one ear.”

“Neat,” says Pidge, “So, how’d you get the prosthetic?”

That is where Lance butts in. “How about we leave that for days of bonding first, Pidge.”

And then he’s steering the topic towards something safer, such as Hunk’s preference in hamburgers, and that gay guy in eleventh grade that tried to convince Pidge that she couldn’t possibly be disinterested in making out. The latter explodes into a tirade that Lance can cheerfully jump in as they exchange stories of people not believing in their sexuality. It stops Shiro from brushing his fingertips over his false limb, softens the stiffness that Lance had seen pass over his smile, and eventually he’s chuckling along with them again.

* * *

“So, I’ve got a mechanic, a tech expert and a pilot sitting in my car,” says Lance, “Sounds like the start of a joke.”

“Future engineer, bonus,” adds Pidge, pointing at Hunk, and then she leans between the front seats. “What are you, Lance?”

“Uh–“

“The driver!” pipes up Hunk, “Except that’s pretty close to pilot, huh?”

“Not the leader,” says Pidge, “Maybe Shiro’s sidekick?”

“Hey!” squawks Lance, “I’m the savior of the lost–“

“The beaten and the damned,” intones Pidge.

“I–I didn’t even say the right lyrics, Pidge,” gasps Lance, “But also, how dare you bring that emo shit into my upbeat and peppy bus? The last vestiges of teenaged angst you’ve left behind must be _purged_.”

And with that, he blasts the shitty radio midway through Nicki Minaj’s verse in Side to Side.

“Comic relief it is,” says Hunk with a grin as Shiro chuckles from the back.

Lance has been driving for seven hours, his fingers are aching around the steering wheel and he really needs to stretch his legs. He knows the rest of them have to be just as restless, but they’re still strangers in his car, and it’s unlikely they’ll say anything. So some time after they pass the border into Montana, Lance declares a pee break, pulling into a gas station in the city of Missoula. They all pile out with sighs of relief.

As Lance fills up the bus, he sends the rest of them off to fetch snacks of choice and go the bathroom as they need to. While the as of yet unnamed vehicle guzzles gas, he goes around to the back to rearrange the bags, putting the cooler of food and drinks in the back seat. It means one less seat for a hitchhiker, but easy access to food? Worth it.

As he’s closing the trunk, the gas flow stops with a click and Lance puts the nozzle away. He’s paid for the gas and Shiro is already back when Lance sees his fourth hitchhiker. This time, they’re not on the highway, which lets Lance stroll on up to where the stranger is standing by the entrance to the gas station with his thumb out.

“Hey, need a ride?” asks Lance when he’s a few paces away, giving the stranger time to turn.

The first thing Lance thinks is _god damn pretty_ , which hits him like a slap to the face. It’s immediate and it stings, but luckily for Lance, the young man in front of him isn’t the same drop dead gorgeous that Shiro is, which allows him to retain some semblance of his personality. Sure, he’s got eyes like the sky at the tail end of dusk, and raven-black hair that flutters whenever a car passes, Lance can appreciate that, but the face isn’t as open and friendly as Shiro either. There’s no reason for him to lose his cool.

The other man nods cautiously, eyeing Lance in a way that Lance should probably be eyeing him – but Lance has a bus full of strangers already. He’s chill.

“Where to?” prods Lance when the man doesn’t immediately speak.

He purses his lips, expression shadowed. “As far as you’re willing to take me.”

“Vague, but okay,” says Lance. _Weirdo alert._ “We’re going all the way to New York, so.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then that shadow is gone, the relief sets in, and the man goes from _dark and edgy_ to _soft_. Lance clamps his jaws down on the thoughtful hum that tries to escape his throat.

“Sounds great, actually,” says the stranger. Something that could possibly be called a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, um, I’m Keith.”

“Enchanted,” blurts out Lance before he can stop himself. _Shit._ The guy – Keith – stares at him wordlessly. “Uh, I’m Lance. I should mention we’ve got a few rules going. No homophobes, no serial killers. You think you can handle that?”

Keith blinks at him slowly, as if trying to figure out whether Lance is being for real or not. Then he nods. “Definitely not going to be a problem.”

“Great.”

He leads Keith back over to the bus, where Hunk and Pidge have now joined Shiro. While they introduce themselves, Lance goes to take his bathroom break. When he returns, Hunk is sharing his pepperettes, and when they see Lance, they climb into the bus. Behind the wheel, Lance accepts a pepperette from Hunk and turns in his seat to appraise his passengers.

“So we’ve got room for one more,” he says, waving the sausage like a conductor’s baton, “Keep your eyes peeled, folks.”

“What’s the plan for overnight?” asks Pidge.

“Stop at a random cheap motel, split rooms. Anyone can sleep in here if they want, I guess. I can’t vouch for any comfort overnight.”

They’re back on the highway, the sky transitioning into a deeper colour as the sun begins its descent. Lance judges he can get in another hour before stopping. He doesn’t want to start driving in the dark, especially when they leave the city behind and it’s all open farmland and wild animals with gleaming eyes jumping out in front of vehicles. He really didn’t need that kind of anxiety in his life.

* * *

Lance learns very quickly that his method of opening up doesn’t work with Keith. That’s not to say that Keith is _unfriendly_ , but Lance can’t help but think he’s a textbook introvert. He doesn’t take the gaps between sentences like Hunk and Pidge did, but when it comes to Shiro, well…

Shiro’s way of conversing doesn’t leave room for yes or no answers. They require explanations, no matter how brief, and explanations almost always seg into other things. So while Lance listens, Shiro gets Keith actually talking – and Lance can’t help but feel a little envious of how easy Shiro makes it seem.

It’s been nine hours of driving and periodic breaks when Lance calls it a day and pulls into a tiny town with a tiny motel and parks the bus. Lance heads inside with Pidge to check out prices and availability while the others stretch their legs. There’s a woman already at the counter, white blonde hair plaited down her back. She’s having a very hushed argument with the clerk, who has circles under his eyes and loose skin that accentuates how tired he is. Unfortunately, no matter how low the woman keeps the volume of her voice, the clerk isn’t sharing in her secrecy.

“Sorry, lady,” he says, his voice coming out like a sigh, “I can’t help you out with that. You got here didn’t you?”

“ _Yes_ but…” and the rest is hushed and strained.

The clerk looks as though he wants to pass out standing – or maybe that he’s about to, regardless of customers standing in front of him. “There’s not much going on for transport through here, miss. You can call a cab–“

“That’s how I _got here_ ,” she says, forgetting her volume control. Her voice has a pleasing accent to it, subtle and calming even when she’s clearly upset.

“Holy hell, expensive,” says Lance before clamping his mouth shut.

The woman and the clerk both look at him. Where the clerk is rough and tired, the woman is the opposite. She’s practically gleaming. Her dark skin is flawless, her eyes are bright, her eyebrows _on point_. If Shiro was the embodiment of Lance’s fantasies as a teen, then this woman was the female version. Immediately, he finds his throat closing up and his mind muddling as he tries to sort out the words coming out of her mouth now.

Luckily for Lance, Pidge is there too and wholly unaffected as she steps forward.

“Yeah, there’s really nothing around here, but this guy –“ And she jerks her thumb at the silently scrambling Lance. “– is picking up hitchhikers. There’s already four of us grabbing a ride with him to New York.”

The woman brightens impossibly. “City? Or just state?”

“City,” blurts out Lance, “That’s the final stop, yeah.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” she breathes, and her hand comes out to grab Lance’s in a firm shake, “My name is Allura. I’ll be in your care…?”

“Lance,” manages the struggling young man, “B-but we’re done for the night, so uh, if you’re okay with waiting till morning…?”

“Oh, yes, of course!”

“Great!” chirps Pidge before Lance can melt into the floor, “Come out and meet the others. Lance, can you figure out the rest?”

She doesn’t wait for Lance to nod jerkily, already leading Allura out into the parking lot to be introduced to the rest of the crew. Which leaves Lance to face the clerk and insert his brains back into his skull.

He books three rooms, keeping the receipt and telling his travel companions they can figure out money tomorrow. With some kind of resentful relief, Lance rooms with Hunk. The big guy is the easiest for Lance to talk to, with his open face and honest laugh. Lance especially likes that he can be around Hunk without his linguistic skills being reduced to that of an amoeba, which he has no doubt would be awkward for both himself and Shiro if they roomed together. So Shiro ends up with Keith, which Lance insists is for the best, because Lance doesn’t want to imagine what sort of awkward silences he would have to bear with that pairing. Meanwhile, Allura is ecstatic to be with Pidge, who, by the time they’re saying goodnight to each other, is getting a little curt.

Usually in situations like these (road trips, unfamiliar beds and new company) Lance can’t sleep. But a brief chat with Hunk occupying the other single, whose sleepy voice is as comforting as his booming laugh, not to mention the exhaustion of driving all day, Lance feels his body and eyelids grow heavy until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey bwyn why do you write in present tense here but past tense in ur other fic  
> man idek it's like when i write in present tense it's an attempt at making the fic SHORTER but obviously I have failed w this one
> 
> honestly i should be saving this stuff for when i'm not obsessively writing but alas i need to SHOW EVERYONE IMMEDIATELY  
> [my tumblr](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com) if u wonder wtf is up w me :3c


	2. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OFF [AnnSmith](http://archiveofourown.com/users/white-cubchoo) made a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/white-cubchoo/the-road-is-as-endless-as-my-love-for-you) that I legit adore and I might've added most of the songs to a playlist on spotify for when I'm writing :3c thanks again friend!!
> 
> Secondly, how long was this chapter supposed to be?? not 9k that's for sure but I've never followed my own plans so here we go, chapters might get longer because I'm a masochist

Lance wakes up to a hard jab in his shoulder. He flinches back, grabbing at the thin sheets and dragging them back over his head. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s not in his usual bed at home, because there’s no chattering from downstairs as the early birds of the family talk over breakfast, and he can’t hear the kids from next door playing in the yard, and he can’t smell cinnamon or oregano or cumin or any of the other myriad of scents that usually permeate his home.

 

“Um, Lance? You said you wanted to be on the road before ten?”

 

Lance flings the covers back, seeing Hunk take a quick step back through sleep-blurry eyes. It takes him a moment to remember he’s in a motel, and had spent the night in a bed beside a stranger. Another moment of contemplation, and Lance sighs out something like a laugh.

 

“Right,” he says, sitting up straight, “Do we get free breakfast or was that wishful thinking?”

 

“No, I think we do,” says Hunk. He turns to grab his bag, all packed up already. It’s clear he waited until the last moment before waking Lance – probably hoping the lanky young man would rise on his own.

 

Alas, Lance treasures sleep like he treasures good food, or time spent in the ocean, or the vehicle sitting outside.

 

Together they leave the room and head to the dining area, which doubles as the lobby. Allura is already there, fingertips brushing the rim of her steaming mug of tea. She looks up from her phone when they arrive and flashes them a bright smile that makes Lance want to simultaneously bundle up and wear shorter sleeves.

 

“Good morning,” she says, flipping her phone so its face down.

 

“Good morning,” replies Hunk, leaving his bag at the foot of a chair.

 

Lance claims the seat beside Hunk by putting his phone down as a placemat. “Mornin’. Is anyone else up?”

 

“I believe Keith and Shiro went for an early morning run,” says Allura.

 

Lance wrinkles his nose. “Actually?”

 

“Yes, they seem to get along quite well. They’ve been gone for maybe an hour?”

 

“You’ve been up for that long already?” Lance can’t help but feel a little guilty about that. Even though he’s the one that’s justified in setting their departure time, he’s very much aware that he’s got some people relying on him to get places on time. “Sorry, I sleep in really easily.”

 

Allura catches his sheepish expression and is quick to shake her head. “Not at all! I just physically can’t sleep in past eight.”

 

“Seriously?” Hunk looks a little concerned.

 

“I’ve tried,” says Allura, expression wry, “Trust me.”

 

“That’s a superpower I don’t want,” drawls Lance as he goes to the long table set up with food.

 

There’s a basic assortment of foods, some bread and little packs of jam and peanut butter, oatmeal, hot water for instant coffee and tea, and a pitcher of orange juice beside the fruit bowl. Lance takes a plate and piles it high with a bit of anything solid, and brings that with a cup of coffee back to their table.

 

“Is Pidge up, too?” asks Lance, slathering a layer of jam on top of a layer of peanut butter.

 

Allura is watching his method curiously as she responds, “She stayed up late, I believe. Out cold when I got up.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

Hunk, a minute behind Lance, also returns to the table to begin cutting up fruits to drop into his oatmeal.

 

“I’m not completely sure,” admits Allura, “On her phone, I suppose.”

 

“I was out cold pretty fast,” says Lance.

 

Hunk hums in agreement beside him. “Usually I’m scared of places like this. Horror films really like to make the mundane extra creepy. But last night? Nope.”

 

“And the whole time, _I_ could’ve been the axe murderer.”

 

Hunk turns his head to stare at Lance. “I regret trusting you.”

 

Lance laughs at that. He ploughs through his food in record time, and is on his second cup of coffee by the time Hunk is finished his own breakfast. Their plates are empty and Lance is about ready to suggest Allura check up on Pidge when the girl appears. In one hand is her phone, thumb tapping and swiping idly. She looks up and replies to their chorus of greetings with a nod, then makes a beeline for the food.

 

“D’you think the other two got lost?” wonders Hunk, brow pinched in concern.

 

“If they did, we can dump their stuff and skidaddle,” says Lance. One legitimately abashed look from Hunk and he’s backpedaling, “I’m joking! I can hop in the bus and have a look around or something–“

 

“There they are!” pipes up Allura, lifting her hand to wave.

 

Lance cast a look over his shoulder, and lo and behold the black-haired jogging duo are walking through the front door. They join them for breakfast, the table proving a little cramped with all in attendance. Lance can see Hunk has taken to tucking his elbows in, like he’d done in the car the day before, to take up as little space as possible. He notices that Shiro, too, is cautious about where his limbs are, but he seems especially wary of his prosthetic, even going so far as flinching when he accidentally nudges elbows with Keith. Lance is painfully aware of their discomfort, but there’s nothing he can do without bringing undue attention to them, so he stays silent.

 

* * *

 

The bus is packed and ready to go just before ten. The group waits around outside the bus until Lance joins them. He can see the awkwardness about them – it’s not their car to get into, they’re not wholly familiar with it, and it’s _Lance’s_ , the guy who plucked them off the streets out of the reckless kindness of his heart. Lance thinks he’s been doing a pretty good job of displaying just how laid back he is about the bus, but the only one that seems to follow through is Pidge, who is also the first one to climb into the bus.

 

Lance slides into the driver’s seat. Pidge and Allura take the back seat, with Shiro and Keith in the middle. Lance is grateful when Hunk ends up beside him once more – the guy is the easiest to talk to, he finds, and he also wants to work on the big guy’s need to make himself smaller.

 

As the bus is pulling out of the motel parking lot and accelerating towards the interstate, Lance shifting through the gears faster than necessary, he glances at the rearview mirror at the collection of random people in the vehicle.

 

“For the benefit of all present,” he says, making sure the coast is clear before changing lanes, “How’s about we introduce ourselves again? Properly. I’ll go first: I’m Lance, and I’ll be your driver for the next four days. Twenty, majoring in theater studies, minoring in dance because why the hell not? I enjoy long walks on the beach, long swims at the beach, and singing. Loud. So be prepared for that.”

 

“What do you sing?” asks Hunk, more out of politeness than actual curiosity, Lance can tell.

 

“Whatever’s on the radio, my man,” replies Lance, and then he’s hit with inspiration. “And speaking of, this baby’ll cut out at random unless there’s pressure on the dash. So I need you to like, pop your feet up there.”

 

Hunk looks uncertainly at the dashboard in front of him and then his own boots. “Um. Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” lies Lance, gesturing dismissively with the hand not occupied with the steering wheel, “Don’t worry about it getting dirty. It only looks clean ‘cause I’ve only had her for a day.”

 

“O–kay.” And Hunk, hesitantly still, despite Lance’s clear approval, brings his feet up to rest on the dash.

 

“Awesome, thanks, buddy,” says Lance as he takes that opportunity to flick on the radio and find whatever station is playing something from the last decade. The static is pretty bad, but at least he can hear Zara Larrson’s lyrics. He turns down the volume as he says, “Okay, your turn, Hunk.”

 

“Oh, right.” Sheepishly, Hunk shifts in his seat to glance over his shoulder at those in attendance. “So, I’m Hunk. I’m going into my first year of mechanical engineering with a minor in physics, but I’m going to be part-time while I juggle working as a mechanic.

 

“Nice,” says Lance, “So, what, that makes you how old?”

 

“Oh! I’m, yeah, twenty-one.”

 

“Damn, you beat me.”

 

“Were we competing?”

 

Lance shot Hunk a grin. “Everything’s a competition, buddy. Alright! Any hobbies?”

 

“Hm, cooking, I guess?” Hunk folds his arms as he thinks. “Reading counts, right?”

 

“I’d say so,” says Allura, and Lance can hear some other murmured agreement.

 

“What kind of books?” asks Shiro. Unlike Hunk, his voice does contain curiosity alongside his polite tone.

 

“Anything with a good plot, really – unless it’s a cookbook. I can read those for _hours_.”

 

“Gonna cook us something this trip, chef?” asks Lance with a grin.

 

Hunk laughs. Once again, Lance feels like he’s accomplished something. “We’ll see.”

 

Introductions move on to Shiro, and it doesn’t matter what he says, he immediately feels like the most interesting guy in the car.

 

“My name’s Takashi, but everyone calls me Shiro,” he says, “I’m twenty-eight, ex-military, just recently got a job as an airline pilot in the state of New York. Recently, I’ve gotten hooked on Pokémon GO, but I have next to no data left for the month, so if you see me on it, just stop me.”

 

If he’d been drinking water, Lance would have spat it over the windshield. As it is, he splutters rather violently, which draws another laugh out of Hunk.

 

“Dude, _what?_ ” Lance cranes his neck to look at Shiro through the rearview mirror. “You’re like, the most mature, put together guy and you just admitted to have an intervention-worthy addiction to Pokémon GO.”

 

“We all have our dark secrets,” says Shiro solemnly, and Lance is so pleasantly surprised by his humour that he really does spit over the windshield.

 

“Let me guess,” pipes up Pidge from the back, “Team Valor?”

 

“How’d you guess?”

 

“Your shoulder to waist ratio, Captain America.”

 

Lance loses it. So does Hunk, so at least he isn’t alone.

 

They move on to Keith as soon as they calm down and Shiro isn’t asking Lance if he’s still capable of driving. The shaggy-haired guy has lightened up considerably since the introductions began. Lance isn’t so sure whether his introduction would have been the same had he gone before Shiro. It seems like their morning jog had initiated a friendship between them. Lance can’t see their faces with his eyes trained on the neverending road, but he can practically _feel_ the encouraging look Shiro is giving Keith.

 

“Uh, Keith,” he says eloquently, “I’m… twenty –“

 

“Bull, try again,” interrupts Lance.

 

“Hey, now,” begins Shiro, but Lance shakes his head.

 

“Bud hesitated.”

 

Lance risks another glance through the mirror in time to see Keith scowl at his head. He can’t help but grin at that. He probably shouldn’t be so pleased, egging on a stranger, but Lance is nothing if not a tease.

 

“Fine,” says Keith, barely managing volume above a grumble, “I’m nineteen. But my birthday is soon, so I’m basically twenty.”

 

“Ooh, how soon?” cuts in Lance again, “Like, soon enough that we can throw a birthday party in the bus?”

 

“That would be so exciting!” trills Allura from the back with a little clap of her hands.

 

“No, it’s– it’s a few days off,” says Keith, and Lance can’t be sure but he sounds relieved. Spoil sport. It’s tempting, but Lance doesn’t interrupt him again when he continues, “Uh, I’m not in school. I kind of quit my job yesterday, too. I figured a change of scenery would be good, so here I am.”

 

Lance knows there’s more going on there – but like directly pointing out Hunk and Shiro’s self consciousness, he knows it’s best not to pry.

 

“I don’t really have any hobbies, I guess. I mean, I like to run, and work out, but that’s pretty much it. So, yeah.”

 

Again, Lance is positive he’s either flat out lying or giving them a watered down version of it. But – again – he says nothing. In fact, Lance is kind of proud of himself.

 

“Awesome,” says Lance as if Keith apparently having _no life_ is, in fact, amazing, “Pidge, you’re up.”

 

“Uh huh,” sighs Pidge, “My name is Katie, but yeah, everyone calls me Pidge. I can’t remember why it’s a thing. I’m a first year computer sciences major, minoring in mathematics. I dabble in a lot of things, but I’m pretty good with electronics. Peanut butter is my jam.”

 

“So, you’re what, eighteen?”

 

“Sixteen,” deadpans Pidge.

 

A hush falls over the occupants of the bus, broken after a moment by Allura’s soft, “ _What?_ ”

 

“I skipped a couple grades,” says Pidge with the air of someone resigned to constant explanations and assurances of her age.

 

“Sweet, my car is full of geniuses,” says Lance.

 

Hunk makes a thoughtful sound through his nose. “I think only Pidge actually counts as a genius.”

 

“Nah,” says Pidge, “I’m a prodigy till I’m a teenager, then I’m a genius till I’m an adult, then I’m just a _decently smart_ person who got their degree a little earlier.”

 

There’s bitterness there, beneath the dismissive intonation. Lance wonders if he’s the only one to notice that. He glances through the mirror, and Pidge’s expression gives away nothing. She just looks bored.

 

“Then how about the average IQ in this car is a lot higher than when it’s just me?” suggests Lance instead.

 

Pidge snorts a laugh. “Sure.”

 

Allura is next in line for introductions. She’s the one that is benefiting the most from them, and while she’s obviously excited, her voice is all grace. “My name is Allura. I’m twenty-six years old, and I’m working my way up the corporate ladder. I have a great many interests – though it may be better to say that I’m interested in anything _new_. If any of you happen to have any talents you’re willing to share, I’m willing to learn.”

 

“Duly noted,” says Lance.

 

With their introductions finished, the car lapses into silence. Lance reaches over to turn up the radio, but the static is overpowering any actual music. One-handed, he grabs his phone from its place of honour in a cupholder. Without actually looking, he uses his thumb to swipe his lock pattern and navigate to his music collection.

 

“How are you doing that?” murmurs Hunk in quiet awe.

 

Lance grins as he chooses a song at random – Adele, nice. “Lots of practice.” When he places the phone down, the cupholder amplifies the sound just enough that he can almost pretend it’s the radio playing.

 

* * *

 

An hour into their second day, and the sound starts up. It isn’t the most gradual of changes, which makes it all the more noticeable whenever Lance takes his foot off the gas and hears the odd chugging sound. He doesn’t think much of it until it starts sounding like a helicopter and even his music blasting from the cupholder can’t drown it out.

 

“Um,” starts Lance, but Hunk is light years ahead of him.

 

“Your lug nuts are loose,” he says, no trace of uncertainty in his voice, “The bolts that keep the wheels on. If you pull over, we can just tighten them up.”

 

“Oh.” Lance puts on his signal as he drifts towards the shoulder of the interstate. He isn’t sure whether the shaking is his own mind’s creation. “Welp. Glad you’re here to tell me that.”

 

“You’ve got a socket wrench, right?”

 

“Uh – if you’re talking about the thingie that turns big bolt things, then yes, I think I do.”

 

“Alright,” says Hunk slowly, “Let me know if you need help.”

 

“Will do, pal. Give me a minute, friends, I’ll have this done in a jiffy.”

 

It involves dragging out half the things in the trunk, but eventually Lance finds the wrench. It also takes a moment for him to identify what exactly it is that he’s tightening up, and which direction he’s supposed to be turning it (“Righty tighty, lefty loosey,” he mutters under his breath) but when all is said and done, it’s only a five-minute ordeal. When the bus accelerates back onto the highway and she’s coasting, Lance hears no chugging and is pleased.

 

Until twenty minutes later, when the helicopter is back.

 

“What the heck,” sighs Lance as he takes to the shoulder again.

 

This time, Hunk hops out to help him move all the bags out of the way. When Lance is done, he leaves the wrench somewhere more accessible. He even gets Hunk to check the nuts to make sure he isn’t doing something wrong. The go ahead is given – but then not ten minutes later, the sound starts up again.

 

“Okay, is the bus trying to tell me something?” gripes Lance once the vehicle is flashing her hazards once more, “Does she hate me? Are we breaking up right now?”

 

“Maybe,” says Hunk, mouth twitching, “But I think we’re going to have to find a way to jack her up. The weight is preventing us from tightening the nuts properly. Rust is probably has something to do with it, too.”

 

“I don’t have a jack,” huffs Lance.

 

“Well, we can do our best till the next town? Find a mechanic to do it for us with a torque gun.”

 

“Maybe we can just muscle it into place?” suggests Shiro.

 

Allura’s voice carries from the back. “Wonderful idea, Shiro. There’s no need for a jack when we have a manpower.”

 

It seems as though Allura’s plan differs slightly from Shiro’s meaning when everyone is standing outside of the vehicle. Pidge is crouching by one of the wheels, a finger poking at a loose lug nut. Not that Lance would say as much out loud, but the speed in which they are loosening after every consecutive tightening is concerning to him.

 

At Allura’s direction, Hunk and Lance are positioned in front of the right front wheel, while Shiro and Keith crouch behind it. Pidge watches, channeling her impatience through a cocked hip and folded arms. The wrench is in Allura’s hand, and she’s using it as a sort of baton to gesture at the young men with their hands curled around the bottom edges of the bus.

 

“On three, you’ll lift the bus up,” she’s saying, twirling the wrench at the wheel, “In which time I will tighten these as thoroughly as possible. If you feel as though you may collapse, please use your words. I’d rather not have anyone sent to the hospital because of something like that.”

 

Lance wonders what kinds of things she’d be okay with seeing them off to the ER for. The wrench raises, and Allura is counting up. When she hits three, there’s a muted chorus of grunts as the four men lift, the wheel going loose on its axis. Lance tries to keep his grimace from becoming too pronounced as the metal bites into his palms. He hazards a quick glance across at Keith and Shiro, the latter of which has a calm expression, but the former seems to be having the same problem as Lance. It makes him feel better to know he’s not the only one that doesn’t usually dead lift vehicles. Allura tells them immediately when she’s finished so they can lower the vehicle once more. They move around the bus until every wheel is dealt with. Once they’re finished, Allura hands the wrench back to Lance.

 

“That should do it,” she says with certainty.

 

Lance is beaming when he thanks her, and then turns to convey the same sentiment to the rest of them. They all climb back into the bus in the same formation as before. Lance chooses his music – a 2015 hit list mash up – before bringing the bus back onto the highway.

 

The lug nuts don’t come loose again.

 

* * *

 

“Lunch time!” declares Lance when they’re passing through a town with a host of fast food joints.

 

There’s a chorus of barely polite but incredibly relieved groans. Lance parks in the McDonald’s lot, the most central of the restaurants, and twists in his seat to level a stern glare at his passengers.

 

“I hope you guys are more vocal about bladder issues than your stomachs’.”

 

Hunk looks especially sheepish as he quickly hits the seatbelt release. “Sorry,” he adds as he flies out of the bus and shuffles quickly to the McDonalds.

 

“If not,” says Lance after a moment, “Keep your cups and pee in those.”

 

Pidge gags audibly from the back. They split up then, Lance fetching his phone from the cupholder. It’s running on a quarter battery after playing music for hours. He hopes there’s a radio station that’ll have some decent music going for the rest of the day.

 

Lance’s food of choice is a country chicken sandwich and a side of fries. He’s the last in line when Hunk reappears, expression relaxed. He joins Lance in the line, arms folded as he looks over the choices on the menu. Lance shuffles forward as the next person finishes paying.

 

“Whatcha gonna get?” asks Lance.

 

“Hmm, I don’t know,” hums Hunk, “None of this looks any good.”

 

“Do you not eat fast food much?”

 

“Nah, I’d rather make it myself,” says Hunk with a shrug, “Y’know, so I know what it is I’m eating and I’m not about to get food poisoning.”

 

“Fair, but this shit’s so good, and so _fast_.”

 

Hunk shook his head and tutted. “It’s not _real food_. But it’ll have to do, ‘cause I’m starving.”

 

As Hunk gives his belly a reassuring rub, Lance casts him a look. “So, I’m serious when I say you guys _really_ need to tell me when you need something.”

 

“Oh, it’s fine,” says Hunk with a wave of his hand.

 

Lance opens his mouth, but the cashier is calling for the next in line, so he steps up to order. When he’s done and Hunk is standing next to him to wait for his mighty Angus, Lance turns to him again to finish his point.

 

“Sometimes I’ll just forget to eat,” he admits, “Like when I’m watching TV or homework, or y’know, _driving_. So if nobody tells me they’re hungry, I could go the whole day without realizing I’m starving.”

 

The stare Hunk levels on him is two parts horrified and one part concerned. “Really?”

 

“Yeah, so like. Remind me.” Lance grins at him. “Bathroom breaks are a whole ‘nother story, but our bladders aren’t gonna be all synced up. So, yeah, let me know.”

 

“Oh, okay,” says Hunk, brow knit, “How do you just _forget_ to eat though? My stomach feels like it’s going to cave in if I don’t eat regular meals.”

 

Lance shrugs. “It’s easy to get lost in whatever I’m doing. Once I went to bed and wondered why my stomach hurt so much. Totally forgot I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

 

Hunk makes an indignant noise, which draws a chortle out of Lance.

 

“It’s easier when I’m at home ‘cause my mom is constantly hounding me. Otherwise I keep a bunch of little sugar candies on me in case my blood sugar drops.” Lance reaches into his pocket, drawing out a wrapped candy. He finds another in the loose pocket of the thin, draping cardigan he has on now. “I should probably start a stash in the bus.”

 

“Probably,” agrees Hunk, still frowning slightly, “Are you… going to be okay driving all the time?”

 

“Ye–ep,” says Lance without hesitation.

 

Behind the counter, an employee reads out his order and he thanks them as he collects his bag of delicious sustenance. He waits the extra twenty seconds until Hunk receives his food as well, and then they return to the bus together. Pidge and Allura are already there, eating from bags with the A&W logo printed on them.

 

“Um, so,” says Hunk slowly, “It’d be great if we could, ah, not eat on the road? I might… Yeah, I might hurl.”

 

Lance snorts a startled laugh. “No problem, buddy. I really don’t want a new coat of paint on the interior.”

 

He unlocks the doors so Allura and Pidge can sit where the back passenger door slides back. He himself perches sideways in the front passenger seat while Hunk remains standing. Automatically, Lance’s hand goes to his phone, but he heaves a sigh when he remembers his battery will die all too quickly.

 

“I don’t suppose anyone wants to sacrifice their phones for music duty?” He casts his gaze around at the three gathered.

 

“Actually,” says Pidge around a mouthful of fries, “I’ve been wondering. You don’t have an auxiliary port in this radio, do you?”

 

“Nada. My first and only issue with this beaut.”

 

Pidge nods as she says, “I can fix that, if you want.”

 

Lance freezes with his sandwich halfway to his mouth for another bite. “What– you can fix it? How?”

 

Allura leans back into the bus to eye the radio while Pidge explains, “I’ll have to take it out to see what I’ll need, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got everything in my bag. It’s actually pretty easy, once you make a gap for the aux cord – which you have, right?”

 

Lance stares at her. His aux cord is lying forgotten in his shared apartment in New York. He’s never needed it at home, and since the bus didn’t have an outlet for it, he never bothered getting a second one.

 

“I have one you can have,” offers Hunk.

 

Squeezing his sandwich between his hands, Lance looks at Hunk in wonder. “You… you would give that to me?”

 

“It’s like, five bucks,” says Hunk. When Lance makes a sound of reverence, he splutters a laugh. “It’s fine! Seriously.”

 

“My _hero_.”

 

“I’m the one making it work,” cuts in Pidge dryly, “For free, might I add.”

 

Lance slaps his half-wrapped and squashed sandwich to his chest. “May I ask for both your hands in marriage?”

 

“You may, but I’ll say no,” says Pidge.

 

Hunk flutters his eyelashes. “Only if the rock is five carats.”

 

Lance’s laugh bursts out of him, delighted by their responses. Pidge drags her bag out of the back and starts rifling through it, her burger shoved in her mouth for safekeeping no matter how many times Allura offers to hold it for her. Soon enough, there’s a motley arrangement of tools and electronics on the pavement.

 

Hunk gets excited about one piece in particular that looks like a half-built project, which prompts Pidge to hold her burger in one hand, search for items with the other, and use her freed mouth to explain what her plans are for that particular object.

 

“Once I’m done with it, it’ll act like a compact drone,” she’s explaining, pride colouring her voice and her cheeks when Hunk gapes in awe, “It has picture and video capabilities, voice and face recognition, and I’m going to program it so it’ll hover over my shoulders and head instead of using more energy keeping it two meters off the ground.”

 

“That’s amazing! Where’d you find all of this?” breathes Hunk, hands hovering over some of the tech lying on the ground, just shy of touching them.

 

“It’s amazing the things people will throw away,” shrugs Pidge.

 

“Pidge is a dumpster diver,” notes Lance. Allura giggles at that and for a moment, his tongue is numb and unable to form words. It takes him another moment to register the pain and the fact he just bit his tongue.

 

“Okay, I’ve got everything,” announces Pidge, shoving all the things she doesn’t require back into her bag. She turns to Lance, who is now wondering how she was able to carry something of that size and weight around. “So you’re cool with me yanking the radio out?”

 

“Go for it,” says Lance, probably far too trusting, but after seeing the things in her arms, he doesn’t think it’s too much of a stretch to have a bit of faith in her.

 

Pidge has the radio out on the ground, legs crossed and a portable battery attached to a soldering iron when Keith and Shiro return to them. Shiro has a box of pizza in one hand, while Keith is balancing a drink tray with stacked boxes of pies on top of it.

 

“What’s going on?” asks Shiro. He mimics Lance, peeking over Pidge to have a look at what she’s doing. So absorbed in her work, she doesn’t respond, but luckily she’s surrounded by commentary.

 

“She’s making it so an aux cord is compatible with the radio speakers,” says Hunk, the rate at which he’s eating his food considerably slower now that he has Pidge’s work to watch.

 

“And an outlet to recharge as well,” adds Allura, gaze flicking from Shiro back down to the operation.

 

“Why?” mutters Keith, standing a yard back and looking baffled. The drink tray and pies are sitting on the middle seat, and he’s got a cup of something in one hand.

 

“So we can blast the good shit,” says Lance, looking over his shoulder at Keith.

 

“By good shit, do you mean tasteless pop “hits”?” retorts Keith, using his free hand to form air quotation marks.

 

Lance can feel his eyes bug out of his head. He clearly gave Keith too much credit as the quiet type introvert. No, he is obviously the brooding and pretentious type.

 

“ _Excuse me_ ,” hisses Lance, “They’re not _tasteless_. They may be catchy, and popular, and fun, but they’re not vapid!”

 

“O–kay,” says Shiro, turning around, “I’m sure Keith didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“I did,” says Keith helpfully.

 

Shiro looks momentarily in pain, a gap which Lance takes advantage of. “You can’t say you haven’t sung along to anything on the hit list before. That would be a _bold lie_. Wait, you’ve already lied about your age, so who’s to say you won’t take it any further?”

 

Keith tucks his chin back in disbelief. “My birthday is in a _week_ , it’s barely a lie! And no, I don’t _sing along_. To any music.”

 

“I can’t believe I’m hearing such poison with my own two ears–“

 

“Can we take a step back here?” interjects Shiro, placing a warm hand on Lance’s shoulder. Unfortunately, he can feel the heat sink into his skin through the thin fabric of his cardigan, and he’s pretty sure it’s colouring his cheeks. “Let’s agree that everyone has different tastes in music, and none of them are wrong, okay? Keith?”

 

Keith turns his gaze elsewhere, but he nods.

 

Shiro doesn’t appear wholly satisfied, but he looks down at Lance next. “Lance?”

 

In response, Lance purses his lips, sniffs, crosses his arms over his chest tightly, but inevitably shrugs. “It’s whatever.”

 

“Great,” says Shiro, even though no apologies and no forgiveness were given, “Keith, your pizza?”

 

When Shiro’s hand leaves his shoulder, Lance feels ten times lighter. Honestly, it’s like being in close proximity to a celebrity, and being directly addressed by one is, well, overwhelming. Even though he knows Shiro is just a normal human being like the rest of them, Lance can’t help his body’s reaction. He figures it’ll all even out once he gets to know him better – and the same went for Allura.

 

The woman is leaning against the doorframe, eyes intent on Pidge’s work. Pidge has taken to explaining what she’s doing, mainly for Hunk’s benefit to slow his flow of questions.

 

“–just remove the capacitor, this thing, from the potentiometer. Move that aside, don’t need it right now. I’ve got copper wire here, twenty-two gauge, and I’m just going to solder ‘em to these three terminals.”

 

Pidge hunches over slowly, lifting her soldering iron to what looks like a cluster of meaningless geometric shapes to Lance. Hunk is nodding along though, and when Lance looks to Allura for kinship in his lack of understanding, he finds her with lips thoughtfully pursed.

 

“Making the middle wire longer will make it easier to identify later,” she suggests, and Pidge makes a small sound of acknowledgement when she cuts that wire.

 

Lance feels a little betrayed because apparently Allura is aware of exactly what’s going on. Feeling distinctly out of place, he steps back as Pidge continues on.

 

“So then the two outside wires get attached to the amp, here and here. Then the aux cord goes here – thanks Hunk – and we just have to test it out. Hey, Lance? Can I borrow your phone?”

 

“Oh, yep.” He reaches into his pocket to fish out his phone, and puts it in Pidge’s offered hand.

 

He watches as she stands to put the radio halfway back into its spot on the dashboard. With the phone plugged in and on, Pidge puts the first song on. Sure enough, it’s coming through the speakers, and Lance is grinning ear to ear even when Pidge goes to touch the volume dial. She spins it clockwise, and the volume goes down, then counterclockwise, and suddenly ABBA is blasting. Pidge turns it off quickly and frowns at the radio as she pulls it out again.

 

“There,” says Allura, extending a long dark finger to point, “Switch those two.”

 

Pidge’s expression clears immediately. “Right, how could I forget?”

 

The change is made, and this time the knob corresponds with the volume correctly. Lance lavishes Pidge with heavy praise, which she takes as gracefully as a teenager with a cheerleading parent. Thrusting himself back from the bus, Lance flings out a hand to point dramatically at Keith, who freezes with a slice of pizza half inside his mouth.

 

“I will get you to sing along,” declares Lance, “It’ll serve as gratuity for driving you across the country.”

 

Shiro looks about ready to cut in again, but Keith groans, finishes his bite of the pizza and scowls at Lance. “I told you, I never sing along.”

 

“And I called bullshit.”

 

“Whatever you choose, I won’t know the lyrics.”

 

“Okay, but are you saying you’ll accept my requirements?”

 

Keith won’t meet his gaze then, but he does a weird shrug-nod combo that Lance takes as a solid, shouted _yes_.

 

“Perfect,” beams Lance, “You don’t need to worry about the lyrics.”

 

“Uh.”

 

“Trust me.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you guys ready for this?”

 

“Ready for what?”

 

“Keith singing, but also _bonding_.”

 

“I’m not singing–“

 

“You promised, Keith!” interrupts Lance shrilly, glaring at Keith through the rearview mirror. The other man purses his lips. “Don’t give me that face, mister grumpy gills. You’re not going to be the only one belting it out. Hunk, if you would.”

 

Hunk, seated as Lance’s right hand man yet again, accepts the proffered phone. It’s plugged in, charging and ready to blast as the bus barrels down the highway.

 

“What exactly am I putting on?” asks Hunk slowly.

 

“Go to the B’s and scroll till you see _it_.”

 

“It?”

 

“ _It._ ”

 

Hunk makes an uncertain sound under his breath but does as he’s told.

 

“I think I know exactly where this is going,” says Pidge from the middle, having claimed the seat so that Shiro and Allura now sit in the back. “And I do approve.”

 

“What is it?” asks Allura curiously.

 

Hunk suddenly chokes on a gasp. “ _Oooh!_ I get it. Nice!”

 

“We’re about to find out,” says Shiro with amusement.

 

“Hit it, Hunk,” says Lance, glancing from the road to Keith in the mirror instead of checking his periphery like a good driver.

 

Hunk hits it.

 

“ _Is this the real life_ –“

 

“Oh, hell _yes_ ,” says Pidge.

 

“– _is this just fantasy–_ “

 

“Caught in a landslide!” crows Lance.

 

“No escape from reality!” hollers Hunk.

 

“Open your eyes – look up to the skies and _seeeeeee_ –“

 

They’re belting it out together, far louder than the early verses call for. Lance can hear Pidge joining in, and a joyful giggle via Allura as Shiro’s voice goes deep on _little low_. With each consecutive line, Lance is getting louder and his throat is already roughened up and his voice cracks when he attempts to go too high, but Hunk is in a similar boat beside him, and when was he ever self conscious about singing badly? Never, that’s when.

 

“ _Mama, ooooo–_

_I don’t wanna die_

_Sometimes wish I’d never been born at all!“_

Lance looks up at the mirror again. He sees the top of Pidge’s head as she bounces in her seat, enthusiastically making guitar sounds along with the rift. Allura is conducting with her hands, Shiro is laughing, his broad shoulders shaking, and when Lance’s gaze comes full circle, it’s to a grinning Keith opening his mouth –

 

“ _I see a little silhouetto of a man–“_

Shiro’s voice booms with every low note, Allura is a falsetto that has no place being so pretty when Lance and Hunk’s voices are breaking with every attempt at a high note.

 

“– _Galileo! Galileo Figaro –_

_Magnifico-o-o–“_

They’re all breathless, but Lance can discern Keith’s voice among the amalgamation of voices – as terrible as Lance’s when it comes to anything beyond a three-note range, but making up for it with enthusiasm. Lance’s chest feels like it’s swelling even as he gasps for breath between lines.

 

Then, when the drop hits, the bus noticeably shakes as six people head bang in unison.

 

Lance has to right the bus before it jerks into the next lane over, but overall he’s pretty proud of himself. When the song ends, Hunk snatches up the phone to choose the next one without Lance needing to prompt him. Pidge groans about her throat, and Allura applauds them all beside a chuckling Shiro.

 

“What was that about not knowing any lyrics, Keith?” Lance cranes his neck to meet the other man’s eyes. Eyebrows are raised on both sides.

 

“It’s – whatever,” says Keith, but Lance doesn’t miss the persistent grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. So Lance takes that as a win.

 

* * *

 

Lance isn’t sure where the topic began, but when he realizes the true value of entertainment, he turns down the music.

 

The sun is still high in the early evening. Montana is already behind them, having crossed the border between the treasure state and North Dakota an hour before. They’ve sung along to several songs, and Lance isn’t sure his voice is going to recover by the next day. Hunk is unwinding beside him, tapping percussion on the dashboard whenever his favourite songs come on. Behind him, Pidge and Keith have found their passions in each other, and Lance finds himself thinking about the endlessness of the universe.

 

“Whether or not there’s a secret government base,” Pidge is saying in a voice hardened by hours of repeating the same arguments, “Means nothing in the grand scheme of things. There’s no way _we_ haven’t been contacted, and if the government is in control of the best technology, they’ll be the first to receive that contact. You hear what I’m saying? You don’t need a base to decipher that shit.”

 

“So you don’t think the government is holding aliens in cells underground?” prods Keith, already deeply invested in their conversation from the moment Pidge casually mentioned a documentary she’d watched the other day.

 

“Doubtful, there’s too many _people_ around. You can’t shut them all up.”

 

“Can’t they? The government has far more power than what we give them credit for.”

 

“Well, _sure_ , they do a lot under our noses, but there’d be too much noise to hide a crash, or bodies.”

 

“Maybe _now_ , but what about decades ago? Centuries?”

 

“That’s more plausible,” hums Pidge thoughtfully, “Those records are incredibly flawed, however. The information isn’t viable.”

 

“It comes down to whether _you_ believe it to be true or not. You can cross reference–“

 

“If the records were complete and there was an infallible source, but there isn’t. It’s something I definitely want to look into when I’m in the city. There’s more resources there.”

 

“Yeah, sometimes you need paper evidence. Too much gets tangled up on the internet.”

 

“Although it is _much_ faster. The temptation to give up quality for time is powerful.”

 

“Once you know what you’re looking for, though.”

 

“Have you researched anything about extraterrestrials?”

 

Lance glances up to see Keith shake his head. “There wasn’t much in my hometown to go on. Nothing, actually. But I did get into other creatures –“

 

“Please don’t tell me bigfoot,” drawls Pidge, “I would lose so much respect for you.”

 

“No, no, no,” says Keith with a short laugh, “That’s small time stuff. Have you heard of fractal elves?”

 

“Fractal elves,” repeats Pidge, “You have my attention.”

 

“They’re these humanoid, machine-like creatures that appear to people hallucinating on psychedelics, like DMT. You have to read up on them to really picture it, but basically, everyone has the same vision, no matter who they are, or where they are. Shamanic traditions, Western users, it doesn’t matter. They see these elves, and the elves speak to them, and tell you to like, speak into creation.”

 

“Wait, _everyone_ has the same trip?”

 

“Basically. So the question is, is the mind bridging between dimensions? Who – or what – are the elves?”

 

“That’s…. _what_.”

 

“I know!” Keith throws his hands up – Lance sees his fingers brush the ceiling of the bus. “They say it’s similar to the shadow man.”

 

“Wait, wait, as in the man that people see during sleep paralysis?”

 

“Yes, the one with the hat!”

 

“I’ve read about that–“

 

The volume of the music is raised again, not enough to drown out the conversation, but enough that Lance notices. He looks to his side, where Hunk has started tapping against the armrest nervously. When he notices Lance looking, he shoots him a shaky smile before looking out the window.

 

Feeling a kind of protectiveness, Lance turns his head slightly to address Pidge and Keith behind him. “So, are you guys planning on taking some DMT? See the elves yourselves?”

 

“Shit, how much is it?” wonders Pidge immediately.

 

“Between one or two hundred for a gram,” says Keith.

 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Lance splutters a laugh. “Dude, you actually–?”

 

“ _No!_ I-I was just curious.”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“Well, you _do_ have that none-fucks-given thing going on,” says Pidge, “The kind that screams I’ve-tried-all-the-drugs.”

 

“I’ve-tried-all-the-drugs-to-visit-my-friends-the-elves,” corrects Lance.

 

“What? I look like that?” Lance can hear the baffled frown in Keith’s voice.

 

“It’s the gloves,” says Lance helpfully, “And the hair. Tousled, careless, bad boy handsome, y’know?”

 

“Aw, you think Keith’s handsome?” drawls Pidge.

 

The reaction is instantaneous. Lance feels his stomach turn into a black hole and suck in all his innards until he’s left with a chilly nothingness. It’s only a brief moment until he wills himself not to go all silent panic on them.

 

“Fuck it,” he says with a shrug, eyes trained ahead. The words do more to calm him than the thoughts trapped in his head can. “Everyone in this car is pretty – but he breaks even with the whole broody thing. Not my taste.”

 

“Aw, thanks buddy,” says Hunk, “I’ve never been called pretty before.”

 

Lance snorts and reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Then everyone around you is blind. You are the prettiest delight of a man I’ve ever had the joy of picking up off the side of a road.”

 

“I’m still going to need that five carat diamond, though.”

 

“Well, shit, I was hoping my flattery would cut the price down to half.”

 

“I think Keith is upset he looks like a druggie,” cuts in Pidge before they can have their first mock lovers spat.

 

“I am not!” protests Keith.

 

“It’s okay, we were mostly kidding,” says Lance solemnly.

 

“Yeah, you only look like the guy that gets into bar fights with biker gangs,” provides Hunk helpfully.

 

“ _Yes_ , I like that one. Let’s go with that one.”

 

“I– I’m not– god dammit.” Keith huffs a sigh. “Okay, I might’ve… fought once.”

 

Lance nearly whips around to stare at him before remembering he’s driving. He settles for straining his neck to see Keith’s face through the rearview mirror.

 

“With a _gang?_ ” prompts Hunk, twisted around and the seatbelt digging into his neck.

 

“Maybe,” mumbles Keith, gaze sheepish, “There was a bun– a few of them. Probably just a couple guys hanging out…”

 

“He nearly said a bunch,” says Pidge.

 

“A bunch,” parrots Lance.

 

“Definitely a gang,” says Hunk.

 

“Did you win?” asks Pidge, leaning over the makeshift armrest between them.

 

Keith looks from Pidge to Hunk and back before flicking to meet Lance’s gaze through the mirror. Then he’s staring out through the window determinedly.

 

“Yes,” he says shortly, and the three of them whoop simultaneously.

 

“What’s going on?” asks Shiro from the back.

 

Lance raises a fist from the steering wheel and pumps it for Shiro to see. “Keith is our designated brawler.”

 

“He’ll protect our honour,” adds Pidge.

 

Allura mutters a question under her breath that Shiro can only shrug to. “Alright, I guess. Thanks in advance for the protection, Keith.”

 

“I– Shiro– What?” bumbles Keith while the rest of the car laughs.

 

* * *

 

They stop for the night in a small city called Dickinson. Dinner is a casual affair made up of snacks and takeout and maybe some fruits that Hunk insists they each eat at least one of. At a fairly cheap hotel, they split up the rooms the same as before, and as Hunk takes advantage of the shower, Lance connects to the Wi-Fi to FaceTime his family.

 

“You’ve been super vague in all your texts,” accuses his older sister as soon as the call connects. Her curly hair is escaping from a bun, making her look frazzled, but her expression is anything but.

 

“Uh, hi to you, too?” says Lance, “I don’t have much time to go into paragraphs about what I’m up to. Mostly driving, y’know.”

 

“Uh huh, and the hitchhiker thing?” She rolls her eyes. “Please tell me you wimped out of that BS.”

 

“Um, nope?”

 

“What.”

 

“I actually got five in the first day.”

 

“You’re shitting me.”

 

“Nope,” repeats Lance cheerfully, “One of them is in the shower right now–“

 

“You’re _rooming_ with them?!”

 

“It’s cheaper! Besides, Hunk’s a cool guy. Super nice. The type that won’t sit down in the living room unless you order him to.”

 

“Lance.”

 

“It’s _fine_ , just trust me,” sighs Lance. He understands where she’s coming from, he really does – but being there, with these people he just met recently, is another story. While he may not know everything about them, he knows they’re not inherently bad people. “Everyone sang along to Bohemian Rhapsody, how bad can they be?”

 

His sister only makes a long, drawn out groan in response.

 

“But besides all that,” continues Lance, “I’m in North Dakota now, right on schedule. One of my new friends fixed up the radio so I can use an aux cord. Update one, complete.”

 

“Okay, hold up,” sighs his sister, “Tell me real quick about these people.”

 

It’s an olive branch. One that’ll keep his sister from ratting him out to his parents for the moment.

 

“Well I’ve told you about Hunk,” says Lance quickly, “Nice, bit shy at first, real funny and likes cooking. He’s a mechanic but he’s gonna go to school for engineering in New York. Pidge is like, a genius, basically. She’s sixteen but she’s already been admitted into a compsci program, and she’s the one that fixed up the radio. She’s also _really_ into aliens and was talking to one of the other guys, Keith, about it today. He’s more into like, alternate dimensions? I don’t really know, he was going on about machine elves or something today. It was weird and creepy. I think he’d be voted most likely to be an axe-murderer, too, but it’s chill now, I cracked him. And then there’s Shiro, who is like, celebrity-level gorgeous? Just. Ridiculous. Plus he’s really nice to boot? Actually, a bit too much like a dad. He’s like, adopted Keith almost. I wouldn’t be surprised if they _were_ related. Too pretty on both sides. _Anyway_ , he’s ex-military and he’s going to be a pilot. Then there’s Allura, who is a goddess in human flesh, and apparently _knows_ things about cars and tech stuff but she just like, slides it in there? She isn’t loud about it but she gave Pidge advice about the radio today and she was _right?_ It was cool, though. Super cool. So yeah, them are the people that ride with me.”

 

His sister stayed thankfully silent for the entire explanation. Now she’s nodding thoughtfully, the formless blobs in her head forming into real people.

 

“And none of them are going to give you a hard time?” asks his sister.

 

Lance has a list of things she could possibly be referring to, but he starts with the most likely. “That I’m bi as fuck? Nah. Pidge is ace, so we’re phantom buddies. And I kind of, asked the rest if they’re phobes before letting them in.”

 

“Of course you did.”

 

“It’d be really awkward if one of them had a meltdown because I mentioned in passing I like dick, too.”

 

She shakes her head. “Okay, fine. Now that I know you’re not dead, though, I have to warn you.”

 

“Oh god, what is it?”

 

“Abuela and abuelo are coming over tomorrow–“

 

“ _Oh._ ”

 

“–and they want to speak to you.”

 

“Well, fuck.”

 

“Yeah, don’t say that in front of them.”

 

“You didn’t tell them about the hitchhiking thing, did you?” asks Lance, his forehead already aching from his worried frown.

 

She waves assuredly. “Obviously not. They’re going to grill you about driving across the country in general. Also about your studies. Your living situation. Whether you’ve got a girlfriend.”

 

“Nothing like hitting every single anxiety I have.”

 

“The power of the previous generation,” agrees his sister, “But you have a whole day to prepare. Use it wisely.”

 

“Gonna get hammered.”

 

“Lance.”

 

“Sorry,” he sighs, “You know I love them, but I _really_ don’t want to talk about that stuff.”

 

“I know, buddy, but stick it out and say what they want to hear and it’ll end sooner. Okay, mamá and papá are downstairs with the kids, you ready for that?”

 

“Oh, _bring it on._ ”

 

* * *

 

When Hunk comes out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam billowing out behind him, Lance has just finished saying goodnight to his young nieces and brother. Before Hunk can make any noise that might raise suspicions, Lance hastily bids the rest of the family goodnight and finishes the call.

 

“Whew,” breathes Lance as he leans over to plug his phone in.

 

“Was that your family?” asks Hunk, already dressed for bed and checking his phone notifications.

 

“Yep. They’re all on the west coast.” Lance purses his lips briefly, lest a sigh escapes him.

 

“Why’d you decide to go to school in the east, then?”

 

Lance falls back against the pillows he’d stacked behind him during the call. “It was spontaneous, kind of. I wanted an adventure, and I kind of fell in love with New York when we’d visited before.”

 

“Do you miss them?”

 

“Of course,” says Lance, staring up at the ceiling, “It’s nice to have space, but the width of an entire country is… yeah. A bit much. My first semester away was fine, but second semester was a wreck. I’m kind of nervous about this semester, honestly.”

 

“I feel you,” sighs Hunk, and Lance turns his head to see his sheepish expression, “When I left home, I didn’t even tell my gran or gramps where I was going, not really. Looking back, I was super vague.”

 

“You just up and left?” asks Lance with a frown. He can’t imagine ditching his family like that. Just the thought of disappearing on them makes his chest ache something fierce.

 

“No, no, they knew I was going, they just didn’t know where. I just couldn’t – didn’t want to stay in the state anymore.” Hunk flops down spread-eagled on his bed. “I was so fed up at the time that I didn’t realize how terrified I was until it was already done.”

 

“I didn’t take you for the spontaneous type.”

 

“Yeah,” chuckles Hunk, “Not really my thing. I needed to get out, though, so I did.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Hunk’s expression twists slightly, and he shifts on the mattress uncomfortably, as if something pricked him. “Um…”

 

“You don’t have to tell me,” says Lance before he can answer, “I get it. That’s probably a little too deep for a shiny new acquaintance of one day. And a half.”

 

“Oh, thanks,” says Hunk, the gratefulness in his voice genuine. He turns his head to shoot Lance a smile to match. “I don’t want to make it sound like I don’t care about my family. Even if we’re apart, I’m a lot better at keeping in contact with them now. I’ve been making a little book of recipes that my gran gives me. It makes me miss everyone a little less when I eat familiar food.”

 

“That’s a great idea,” says Lance with a little _ooo_ sound, “I want to make my dad’s empanadas. Shit’s good. Like the kind of good that makes you want to cry a little. Also, my mom’s pizza. And my abuela’s home made yuca chips. God, I’m getting hungry.”

 

Hunk chortled. “I’m kind of craving poke right now.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Raw fish.”

 

“Like sashimi?”

 

“Except in like, cubes, instead of slices. Spicy mayo anything is my favourite.”

 

“…I kind of want to try it. I’ve had ceviche before, but it wasn’t really my thing.”

 

“Maybe we can find some,” says Hunk cheerfully.

 

“Make it for us!” beams Lance.

 

“Find me a kitchen and maybe.”

 

“Oh _hell_ yes.”

 

They spend the rest of their evening discussing food. By the time Lance is drifting off to sleep, murmuring half replies to Hunk’s muffled suggestions, his mind is full of culinary inspiration.

 

And if he wakes up with the memory of dancing sushi, well, that’s the least bizarre part of his dreams.

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so like when i use tutu i want to use it the same way i use omi which is like.. using it as a name instead of "my tutu/my omi" because saying "my omi" is weird for me?? I never say that??? I'll go straight to "my german grandmother" when i mention her to my friends.. meanwhile grandma is just grandma ((i have no gramps but i bet "my german grandfather" would want to be called großvater because that's the kind of guy he sounded like ANYWAY))
> 
> also since tutu is gender neutral would one say "tutu and tutu" or "my tutus" or "kupuna" how does one pluralize that.... there's so many cuban!lance resources but where are the hawaiian!hunk resources huh??? HUH?????  
> EDIT: SO TURNS OUT HUNK IS CANON SAMOAN?? HECKYA so I went ahead and changed how he refers to his grandparents (there's no literal translation (unless ur explaining exactly how ur related) so apparently they'll call em by either their name or non-Samoan titles, hence gran and gramps
> 
> anyway i tried yuca and plantain chips when i was in ecuador and i rly didn't like them which was kind of just sad. also ceviche ick. my mom wondered how the hell I survived for two weeks eating all the foods I wouldn't touch at home. I SUCKED IT UP AND inhaled all the soups and desserts.
> 
> i just realized i gave all the school kids minors welp why would i NOT????  
> OKAY BYE FRIENDS I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS MESS OF A CHAPTER
> 
>  
> 
> ~~HEY FRIENDS WHO MIGHT BE READING THIS RN I'm waiting till I'm done with Foreign Scenes before continuing this so hold on~~


	3. Day Three

The dream is warm and soft, leaving behind traces of comfort when Lance wakes. The morning sun leaves bars of cozy heat across his body, drawing him from his slumber gently. There’s still a slight confusion until Lance recalls just where he is and what he’s doing, but it doesn’t last as long as the previous morning. This time, when he props himself up on the heels of his hands, Hunk is also stirring in his own bed. A quick glance at the clock yields the time: 8:30 AM on the dot.

 

For once, Lance is able to pick up his phone and turn off his alarm before it has the opportunity to blast. There’s a special sort of satisfaction that comes with it; a proud feeling that he managed to rise on his own, refreshed and ready.

 

In front of the sliding glass doors leading to the second floor balcony, Lance stretches out his limbs and basks in the sunlight. Movement from below catches his eye and he tips his chin down to get a look. He snorts when he realizes it’s Keith and Shiro, on another morning run together. There’s an odd tug in his gut that Lance isn’t wholly unfamiliar with, but he chooses not to dwell on it for now. It comes with being a people person – the desire to be liked, to have his company wanted.

 

Behind him, there’s a long and slow inhale/exhale duo from Hunk. Lance turns once his spine has successfully been popped from back to neck.

 

“Mornin’,” he says, voice somehow still working despite the singalongs, and begins to change into the clothes he chose the night before.

 

“Good morning,” says Hunk, who takes his own outfit change into the bathroom with him.

 

Together, they bring their things outside to the bus before returning inside. Once again, Allura is sitting at a rickety table with a mug of tea, but this time her brow is slightly furrowed and she gives the surface of her phone a vicious tap before realizing she has company. She flashes them a brilliant smile, the frown gone as if it never existed.

 

“You’re up early,” she says cheerfully.

 

“The sun gently caressed my face,” says Lance, brushing his knuckles across his cheek in mockery of his own description, “Until my eyelids burned and I had to move them. Actually not a bad way of waking up, though.”

 

“Sounds… delightful,” says Allura before taking a gentle sip of her tea, “Well if we’re going to leave earlier today, I think I’ll take a quick shower.”

 

Lance waves a careless hand. “You’ve got loads of time, don’t worry about it.”

 

Allura leaves Hunk and Lance to their breakfast, as basic as the previous night with toast and yogurt and cereal. Lance doesn’t realize how hungry he is until the food is right in front of him, and he digs in without a second thought. Hunk eats leisurely, and then his pace slows noticeably until his utensils are hovering over his plate. Lance finishes his bowl of cereal and balances the spoon on the edge.

 

“What’s up?” asks Lance, lacing his fingers together beneath his chin.

 

Hunk’s eyebrows twitch – he clearly wasn’t expecting Lance to say something. It’s with the lowering of his fork and a barely perceptible sigh that he fixes Lance with a slightly bemused frown.

 

“Yesterday,” he begins slowly, tightening one corner of his lips and then the other, “About the radio pressure thing. That was bullshit, right? I mean, the radio was working fine before – and fine after.”

 

“Oh, _that_.” Lance switches bowl for plate and grabs a couple packets of butter and jam to slather over toast. “Yeah, it was a pretty weak excuse, but it worked didn’t it?”

 

“...What worked?”

 

His mother would have a conniption if she saw how much butter Lance is currently layering in lieu of peanut butter. “I told you, didn’t I? The bus won’t break if you get comfortable. You don’t have to pack yourself in.”

 

“Oh.” Lance chances a glance to see Hunk looking thoughtfully at his food. “I see.” Then, a little quieter, “Sorry.”

 

The apology rubs Lance the wrong way for a number of reasons – chiefly because there’s nothing to apologize _for_. Lance says as much when he begins on a layer of strawberry jam.

 

“Sorr–I mean, you’re right, yeah,” says Hunk. It’s with a drop of his shoulders that he admits, “I’m still a little awkward being in a stranger’s car – not that you’re a stranger!”

 

“I am,” Lance points out wryly.

 

“Oh, right.” Hunk’s mouth curves up a little. “So, yeah, still a bit awkward about it. I mean, it’s like being in someone’s house for the first time. Do you sit on their couch? Is that okay? And even when you do, it’s a bit weird because it isn’t _your_ couch, y’know?”

 

“I get it,” says Lance with a nod, “Which is why I’m being straight with you – _hah, straight_ – sorry, uh, right, it’s because I’ve grown up with that thing and it’s also strange for _me_ to see someone not comfortable in her? She’s like, another form of home, I guess. So, don’t worry about it, yeah? Just, try to relax a little.”

 

He glances up periodically from his food. Pinning Hunk with his stare, he suspects, might throw the more nervous man off. Whether it’s his words, or his consideration – or both – Hunk does seem soothed as he picks his fork back up.

 

“Thanks,” says Hunk, and then he returns to his food with gusto.

 

Lance smiles and takes a slightly too large bite of his toast.

 

After a minute, Hunk pauses in his eating to say, “I can drive stick, so if you want to take a break, we can go in shifts.”

 

The table shudders as Lance theatrically slams his palms down on the surface. Hunk, along with every plate and bowl sitting on the table, jumps at the suddenness.

 

“I would love you to the ends of the earth – of the sun itself – if you would do that,” declares Lance with feeling.

 

Hunk grins and shakes his head. “It’s the very least I can do. Besides, you changed the conversation when they started talking about the shadow man yesterday. Thanks for that.”

 

“It was creepy shit,” shrugs Lance, “No biggie.”

 

They share a smile, a small thing that convinces Lance he’s more aware of who Hunk is as a person now than when they gave cheap introductions to each other the day before. It’s with mutual gratification that they return to their breakfast.

 

Ten minutes later and Lance is done, Hunk is getting there, and the front door opens to admit Keith and Shiro. Both have flushed faces with pleased expressions, their hair plastered to their foreheads. When he sees Lance and Hunk at the cheap table, Shiro greets them with a casual lift of his arm. He says something to Keith and heads up the stairs while Keith walks over to the breakfast table.

 

“Shiro called dibs on the shower,” says Keith, his voice coming out slightly breathless with exertion. The plate he’s picked up is already piled high with everything he can get his hands on.

 

Hunk stacks the empty dishes on their table to make room for Keith as Lance quips, “Damn, we’re left with you to stink up the place, sweaty?”

 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Lance regrets it. When Keith’s step falters in his approach to the table, and his eyebrows pinch uncertainly, cold embarrassment douses Lance from head to toe. He doesn’t even want to see the sort of face Hunk is making.

 

“I definitely didn’t mean for that to come out the way it did,” says Lance quickly. All the food in his stomach seems to be coagulating. “I forgot I’m not on dragging terms with you guys. My bad.”

 

He swallows, finds his throat dry, and wonders why he didn’t grab a glass of juice or something. Keith is still looking at him, but his frown might be letting up, so that’s a good sign. With the scrape of metal on linoleum, Keith pulls out a free chair at their table and sits down.

 

“Oh, sure, that’s fine,” says Keith once he’s seated, and then his free hand motions at his own mouth awkwardly, “You’ve got a little…”

 

Lance’s hand jumps to his face and he picks off the drying jam residue that collected on the corner of his mouth. He’s fairly certain that it is _not_ fine – or maybe it is? – but Hunk’s already switching the threads of their conversation and Lance misses his opportunity in his haste to clean his lips.

 

“How long were you guys out there for?” asks Hunk with that polite not-quite-curiosity of his, desperate to leave that awkward interaction behind. Lance can’t blame him.

 

Keith seems to move on readily enough. “Just under an hour, I think.”

 

“Was there anything interesting?”

 

“Not really.” A pause. “Apparently there was a Pokéstop and I had to confiscate Shiro’s phone.”

 

“You _what?”_ Lance stares at Keith, whose mouth curves into a smile that warms Lance’s stomach.

 

“He forgot to ask for it back, actually.” And Keith pulls out Shiro’s phone from a pocket and rests it on the table.

 

“No shit,” says Lance, his hand already going in to grab it off the table, “You know what this means, right?”

 

Keith blinks at the steal, toast floating halfway to his mouth. “No?”

 

Lance cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed, and switches his gaze to Hunk. “You?”

 

“Selfie spam?” guesses Hunk with a slight smile.

 

“Damn right we’re going to have a selfie spam.” Lance twists in his seat while sliding his fingertip across the screen. “Try to look pretty, kids. Or really just Keith. Hunk has it down already.”

 

Rewarded with Hunk sputtering half a laugh, half a protest, Lance grins as he lifts the phone up. Keith looks caught somewhere between surprised and confused, food dropping from his mouth, and Hunk is significantly more red than usual, and Lance himself is beaming as he tips his head and flattens his thumb against the capture button.

 

* * *

 

“Two hundred and eighty-four pictures,” deadpans Shiro from the middle seat as he flicks through them, “And they’re not even all burst. This is…”

 

“Profound?” suggests Lance, accelerating from second to fifth gear in quick succession as they peel out onto the highway.

 

From beside Lance, Hunk adds, “Fascinating?”

 

“Breathtaking?” proposes Pidge from way in the back.

 

“None of the above,” drawls Keith, which kicks a laugh out of Lance.

 

“Unbelievable,” settles Shiro, lifting the phone to show Allura over his shoulder.

 

“How… lovely,” says Allura, bottom lip pinned beneath her teeth when she isn’t speaking, “Or… I’m sure you all are. Pidge, what even are you doing in this one?”

 

Pidge leans over sideways to peek. “Ah, that there is my hand. The blur is Lance’s head.” Lance bursts out laughing as she adds, “You have to go through the ones before that for context.”

 

“Is that–?”

 

“Keith’s shoe.”

 

“Oh. And where was Hunk during these?”

 

“Ah, he’s that blur _there_.”

 

“I didn’t think I was gone for that long,” laments Shiro, allowing the girls in the back seat to flick through the rest of the pictures.

 

“You weren’t,” says Keith, “But…”

 

“My thumbs are speedy from years of experience,” cuts in Lance, beaming into the rearview mirror at Shiro, “Usually I change the backgrounds, too, but alas.”

 

“I’m never going to willingly give any of you my password for that reason,” says Shiro.

 

“Willingly being the key word,” notes Hunk.

 

Lance shoots Hunk a grin. “ _Precisely_.”

 

“Here’s your phone back, Shiro,” says Pidge.

 

“Thanks– What. How the hell did you figure it out?”

 

“I’m a genius?”

 

“Seriously–”

 

“I watched you type it in.”

 

“What? _What?”_ Lance cranes his neck in an attempt to get a look through the mirror. He stops only when the bus wobbles and Hunk worriedly tells him to keep his eyes on the road.

 

Thankfully Keith answers him. “Pidge changed the background to the one of you dropping the bowl on my head.”

 

Lance sucks his lips right into his mouth, but the snorting laugh that’s ripped out of him is impossible to stifle.

 

“It hurt,” adds Keith, and Lance can practically hear the raised eyebrows in his voice.

 

“Sorry,” gasps Lance unapologetically, “I swear I didn’t mean it, but your face – holy shit – what a beautiful expression.”

 

“It was pretty funny,” says Hunk as if it’s any consolation.

 

Keith sighs.

 

* * *

 

It’s following a conversation about sweaters – during which Lance admits he’s rather good at knitting – that Allura says she has a collection of coloured thread that she was planning on using to make bracelets. Pidge and Hunk both know some basic patterns, and suddenly everyone but Lance is tying knots in strings that he assures them are fine “just staked through the heart of the cushions”, meaning Pidge unbuckled herself to find safety pins in her bag to fasten the threads down.

 

For a short while, the bus is silent as its occupants – minus Lance – focus on the knotting of string. It isn’t long until Lance’s left leg begins to bounce a beat, his heel against the mat. The music isn’t quite loud enough for him, but he’s hyperaware of its volume following Hunk turning it down a couple notches. There’s nothing on the road to focus on – just barren plains of grass with the occasional farmhouse – and there’s nobody in the car whose concentration he’s willing to break, so Lance finds himself fixating on the soft noises that form a symphony of their own within the bus.

 

There’s Hunk, shifting every so often as if uncomfortable, yet his gaze is locked fiercely on the threads. He’s stooped over, the end of the bracelet held taut by the glove compartment, and once in awhile, but never the same moment as a shift, he’ll blink hard and rub his eyes, strained from glaring at the thin string. Meanwhile, Keith is more vocal about his frustrations. Seated behind Lance, Keith’s low huffs are even more obvious than Hunk’s adjustments, and more frequent. Lance made a single comment the third time he nearly growled, was met with an actual growl, and so never did again. Shiro is utterly silent, much like Pidge, but while the latter boredly announces the completion of her bracelet and resumes tapping at her phone, Shiro works away slowly and patiently, his prosthetic’s fingers used as a brace while the majority of the fine weaving is done by his flesh and blood hand. Allura simply lets out a breathy giggle at odd intervals. Lance thinks she might be watching whatever it is Pidge is doing on her phone.

 

Meanwhile, Lance is bored out of his mind, the speed in which his foot is hitting the mat is increasing, and there’s a restless buzzing that’s starting at the base of his brain and sprouting some pretty ugly things he can usually deal with.

 

But he’s trapped driving the bus, a bus full of _strangers_ , and he just wants to snap about something, _anything_ , whether it be how loud the rushing sound of tires over pavement is, or the tapping of Pidge’s fingers against the phone, or the feeling of Keith tugging at the ends of the string currently pinned to the back of the drivers seat–

 

The music changes. It takes Lance half the first verse to realize the song is Spanish, and the rest of the first verse to notice it’s a song he knows. By the time the bridge melts into the chorus, his lips are forming the familiar words. He doesn’t realize he’s audibly singing along until he hears another voice mumbling along to the words, accent as poor as the general effort put in.

 

Hunk looks up when Lance snorts, flushes crimson and hunches even closer to the half-formed bracelet. “Sorry.”

 

“It was a beautiful duet while it lasted,” comes Allura’s voice from the back.

 

Lance grins, his weirdly dark feelings melting away with every drop of Spanish that rolls off his tongue. He finishes the rest of the song, voice growing until the very end, and even Hunk finds the courage to jump back in, albeit only for the chorus.

 

Then Kendrick Lamar is playing and Lance settles.

 

“You speak Spanish?” asks Shiro before the lyrics even start up.

 

“I can,” says Lance, letting his fingers tap to the beat against the steering wheel, “I’ve got a pretty noticeable accent, though.”

 

“What? Really?”

 

“Yeah, I only really spoke it in class, y’know? My parents were worried I’d get bullied if I had a Spanish accent when I was a kid, so they always made me respond in English even if it was my abuela talking to me.”

 

“I get that,” says Pidge, never ceasing her taptapping, “My nana speaks Polish to me, but for whatever reason everyone expects me to reply in English, which is like, okay, but will I ever be able to string together coherent sentences of my own? Then my omi doesn’t even bother with German. Apparently she had the same issue with the whole bullying thing so she didn’t speak much German to my dad.”

 

“That kind of sucks,” says Lance.

 

“Yeah, who the hell wouldn’t want to be trilingual?”

 

Lance glanced in the rearview mirror. “So if you call your grandmothers nana and omi, what do you call your grandfathers?”

 

“Dunno,” shrugs Pidge, “Both are hella dead.”

 

Unfortunately, Lance splutters a startled laugh at that. “ _Pidge!”_

“What? It’s true.” But Pidge is grinning and Lance gets the impression that her grandfathers passed on before she could really form a familial bond with them. Lance imagines losing his abuelo after years of idle gossip, bonding over knitting and card games. His chest aches.

 

Hunk’s wistful voice cuts through Lance’s reverie before anyone can notice his odd silence. “I wish my grandparents spoke Samoan to me. They only ever speak in English to me, same with my parents.”

 

“It’s kind of disappointing, right?” says Pidge, “Like, they had the opportunity, but they didn’t take it.”

 

“I just wish I was, I don’t know, closer to my culture? Where my parents and grandparents come from?” There’s a sigh, low and despondent. “Maybe I’m just being greedy.”

 

“It’s not greedy,” says Pidge. Cut and dry.

 

“I think everyone wants to connect to their roots,” adds Allura. There’s a muffled clattering sound coming from her corner of the bus, but nobody comments on it.

 

“Especially when you have people assuming you can speak the language ‘cause of how you look,” murmurs Keith.

 

Lance tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Right, stupidest assumptions people have made about you based on language, _go_.”

 

“Someone asked me if I could speak Greek,” says Hunk.

 

“...What? Were they confused?”

 

“I know I sure was.”

 

“First time I said something in Polish, I was reading the label at a grocery store,” pipes up Pidge, “My friend asked if I was speaking _Portuguese_.”

 

Allura’s giggle is muffled by both hands. Lance sees Pidge’s amused grin through the mirror, and movement closer to him draws his attention to where Shiro is counting silently on his fingers. Lance returns his gaze to the road before he’s finished counting.

 

“I’ve got five,” says Keith.

 

“I’m at six, I think,” replies Shiro.

 

Hunk twists in his seat to peer over his shoulder. “Six what?”

 

“Languages people have asked if I could speak.” Now Shiro’s flicking each finger down as he goes through the list. “Chinese – not even Mandarin or Cantonese. Korean. Japanese. Thai. Filipino. Vietnamese.”

 

“I’m standing at Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, French and English,” lists off Keith.

 

“English,” repeats Hunk.

 

“Oh yeah, make that seven,” deadpans Shiro.

 

Lance can’t help but snort a laugh. “And can you speak any of those? Besides English – I can see your face, Keith.”

 

Keith slides back out of view, schooling his expression back into neutral territory. “Just English.”

 

His voice is definitely disappointed, but he doesn’t offer any context like Hunk. Instead, Keith resumes his silence as Shiro introduces himself in a single patchwork sentence combining Russian, French and Japanese. Everyone in the car is all very impressed, but Lance’s attention is drawn in by the quiet angst radiating from behind his seat.

 

Lance turns his head towards the window, speaking over his shoulder. “Hey, Keith.”

 

There’s no hiccup in the rest of the vehicle’s conversation; Pidge is asking Shiro to say grammatically complex phrases in French while Allura and Hunk look on. Lance can’t get a good look at Keith’s face through the sideview mirror, the sun glinting off it and obscuring the reflection, but he can see the set of Keith’s mouth, and it doesn’t look unpromising.

 

“What?” Keith finally asks.

 

“I could teach you some Spanish to throw them off.”

 

“Throw who off?”

 

“Everyone. People.”

 

“Why?”

 

“‘Cause it’ll be fun. What d’you say? Just a few phrases or something, when we take a break.”

 

Keith doesn’t reply for a solid ten seconds, during which Lance convinces himself that he’s been rejected via silence. Then Keith says quietly, “Sure.”

 

Lance returns his eyes to the road ahead, smiling. He subtly skips the next song on his phone after the first few notes to save himself the embarrassment. There’s more clattering, some thoughtful hums, and then Pidge is shouting something about green. Keith makes a confused noise following the thump of something against a car seat.

 

“ _Please_ ,” begs Allura, “I swear, it’ll suit your skin tone.”

 

Pidge practically hisses. “I can deal with literally any other colour than pink. You have a ton of greens there, just pick one of _those_.”

 

“But–”

 

“Green or nothing.”

 

Allura sighs. “Very well.”

 

Lance tries to see what’s going on via the mirror, but all he sees is Allura and Pidge with their eyes downcast between them. Keith hikes his elbow up on the back of the seat and leans over to see what’s going on while Lance faces forward once more.

 

“Which do you want, Keith?”

 

“Wha– me?”

 

“Of course! Black would suit you, or red.”

 

“I don’t… really think… it’s for me?”

 

“Nonsense! As long as you choose the right colour, nobody can look _bad_.”

 

“That’s not really what I meant–”

 

“Black or red?”

 

A long pause.

 

“...Red.”

 

Lance feels an impatient itch along his bones. He shoots Hunk a glance. “What’s going on?”

 

“Hm? Oh.” Hunk looks up from where he’s finishing tying off the bracelet. “Painting their nails, I think.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“What colour would you like, Shiro?” asks Allura.

 

“Um, black is good, thanks,” replies Shiro distractedly, halfway through the bracelet but still knotting away.

 

The smell of nail polish is strong, wafting over Lance in an abrupt wall. He wrinkles his nose, scratches at the tip, but it does nothing to rid him of the itch as the pungent odor collects in his nostrils.

 

“Can we open a window, Lance?” asks Allura.

 

“Go for it,” replies Lance tightly.

 

The pressure seems to change in the bus as fresh air comes whipping in. The throbbing of it presses against Lance’s ears, and he’s about to snap again, but he grinds his teeth together until someone else is opening another window. The pressure eases and his jaw loosens up. Beside Lance, Hunk is eyeing him – he can tell every time the other man shifts and his head turns conspicuously.

 

Lance finds himself irritated by that, too. “Yes, Hunk?”

 

Apparently Hunk has been waiting for that. “Are you hungry?”

 

_Oh_. Right. Food.

 

“ _Starving,”_ admits Lance in the same instant he realizes his stomach is a black hole and his fingers might be quivering.

 

* * *

 

The next pit stop isn’t for another ten miles, but some food is passed up from the cooler in the back to tie Lance over until then. The town is small, but fortunately it comes equipped with a few fast food joints attached to a general store and a gas station, so while everyone scatters to grab their lunch of choice, Lance stays behind to top up the bus. He wanders around the side of the vehicle as he does so, giving the lug nuts a tap with his toe. None of them are loose.

 

Shiro approaches as the nozzle clicks and Lance is pulling it from the bus. “How do you want us to pay you back for gas? Is cash fine?”

 

Lance looks at him blankly for a moment before it registers that he’s been driving them along for free. “Oh, right,” he says eloquently before popping the nozzle back into the pump, “I’ll just make a bucket or something and you guys can toss spare change in there.”

 

“Spare change?”

 

“Yeah, y’know, anything you can afford.” Lance shrugs. “Take turns buying me a coffee or something, it’s cool.”

 

It’s with a cocked eyebrow that Shiro says, “I’ll let everyone else know then.”

 

“Thanks, bud.” And Lance whisks away to pay what’s due inside the gas station.

 

Luckily, Pidge and Keith choose to share a bucket of chicken strips and fries and aren’t at all perturbed by Lance snagging the bucket once they’re done. With the crumbs rinsed out, it’s just big enough without being obnoxious for holding money. Lance uses a bunch of duct tape – courtesy of Pidge – to stick the thing at the foot of the middle seat, the lip of the cushion just over the opening so as to avoid kicking as people scooch in.

 

Once everyone is sated, they pile back inside the bus and get a move on. Now, however, the girls occupy the middle seat, with Shiro and Hunk in the back to give Hunk the opportunity to have his nails painted – leaving Keith riding shotgun.

 

And Lance instantly finds himself in a constant state of dueling.

 

“What is this?” mutters Keith, scowling at Lance’s phone.

 

“The music?” Lance, in turn, scowls at Keith. “It’s Selena Gomez.”

 

“It’s bad.”

 

“No, it isn’t,” huffs Lance, “You just don’t like the genre. Doesn’t mean it’s _bad.”_

 

“No, it _is_ bad,” insists Keith as his hand dips towards the phone.

 

“First lesson – _de madre_.” Lance smacks his hand away. “You just haven’t heard enough.”

 

Keith jerks his hand back and grumbles, “Your taste in music is terrible.”

 

“Your taste in _hair_ is terrible!” retorts Lance, hearing a “Nice one, Lance” float up from Hunk in the back. “Besides, you sang along to Queen.”

 

“Yeah, so?”

 

“Queen is part of my _taste_. You loved it. Therefore, my taste is not bad.”

 

Out of his periphery, Lance can see Keith struggling with his expression. Eventually, he appears to settle for disgruntled silence, folding his arms tightly over his chest and sinking slightly in his seat. For all his sulking, however, he doesn’t try to change the music, and keeps his fingers carefully straight to avoid denting the nail polish Allura spent a considerable amount of time perfecting. It’s kind of cute, Lance is reluctant to admit, but then he takes pity on Keith and gives him a light-hearted smack to the shoulder.

 

“If you hate it that much,” says Lance once Keith finally looks at him, “Find something else you like on the playlist.”

 

He doesn’t immediately dive for the phone. “...Really?”

 

“If it’s on my own phone, I’m guaranteed to like it,” says Lance with a shrug, “I’m not losing out.”

 

Keith waits another beat before hesitantly picking Lance’s phone from the cupholder, pulling the aux cord out of the way of the stickshift. The first song finishes and the next is a third of the way through before Keith selects a new song. It’s something acoustic, but still upbeat, and after a moment Keith appears to deem it worthy because he puts Lance’s phone back into the cup holder. He says nothing about the song, and neither does Lance, but by the way one of Keith’s red-tipped fingers is tapping a beat against his thigh, Lance can assume he’s enjoying it.

 

* * *

 

It’s barely half an hour later that Lance has the realization that he is _bored_ , and frustrated out of his mind due to the boredom, and it (maybe) has nothing to do with the fact that Hunk is braiding everyone’s hair – even Shiro’s forelock – into art. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with a (slight) bitterness that his hair is too short for braids even if he _was_ sitting in the back, or that Shiro graduated from tying thread in knots to tying Keith’s mullet into what appears to be a pretty damn good fishtail – no, it has nothing to do with any of that, and everything to do with the barren landscape.

 

Lance is bored of the flat terrain, the waving grass, the wheat, the corn, the farmhouses that are bigger than the barns, the unchanging sky and the unchanging road. His leg is jogging again, he’s going twenty over the speed limit and nobody’s noticed; not even the progression of Keith’s musical taste from acoustic ballads to dubstep remixes of Panic! At The Disco is enough to deter the oncoming psychotic break.

 

Eventually, Lance takes matters into his own hands and flicks on the turn signal, announcing with forced calm, “Attention crew, I’m pulling us the fuck over and going for a sprint. Don’t mind me.”

 

“You’re what?” ask Pidge and Hunk simultaneously.

 

Lance says nothing more, successfully pulls the bus over to the shoulder without toppling them onto the grass, and then he’s leaping from the bus and running full tilt into the swaying fields of golden wheat. Once he’s surrounded on all sides, and his extended arms are tickled by golden beards, Lance slows down and tips his face to the sky. He has no idea how to get rid of his pent up restless energy, but he starts by releasing a sleuth of curses, in English and Spanish and those in random languages taught to him by his friends.

 

Once he’s exhausted his supply, he drops his arms to his sides. There’s still an agitated buzz in his limbs, but at least it isn’t exploding out of him anymore. He starts back towards the road, the tallest plants tickling his chin until he bats them out of the way. When he looks up to spot the bus, instead of seeing all his passengers peering out from the windows, there’s Allura practically skipping into the field, an elated smile on her face. Behind her is Hunk and Keith at a jog, while Shiro remains behind, leaning against the bus with Pidge crouching at its wheels.

 

“It’s been years since I’ve been in a farmer’s field,” chirps Allura, and then she’s flouncing past Lance and spinning among the plants.

 

“Lance!” huffs Hunk, slightly out of breath as he comes to a halt and runs a hand with yellow nails through his mussed hair, “Give us a little warning next time, yeah?”

 

Keith doesn’t stop, putting Lance instantly on guard as he plucks a golden stem free from its sheath. “Yeah, Lance, a _warning_.”

 

And then Lance receives a nose full of wheat and he squawks. “What the hell!”

 

A second beard of wheat joins the mix, courtesy of Hunk, and then Lance is fending off the ticklish plants from invading his nose and ears and the collar of his shirt. It devolves into an all-out war, grains flying and getting lost in hair, the flannel around Keith’s hips, and the loose swoop of Lance’s shirt. They’re so absorbed – Lance and Keith ganging up on Hunk to stuff his shirt full – that none of them notice Allura is creeping up on them until she unleashes an armful of the stuff over their heads. She takes off back to the bus, golden dust whirling in her wake, while the three boys are stuck laughing and shaking wheat from their hair.

 

Lance is dancing a jig that is doing more harm than good for the wheat trapped beneath his clothes when Hunk steps up to clap a hand on his shoulder.

 

“I’ll drive the rest of the way,” says Hunk with finality, “You can rest in the back.”

 

“It’s fine,” says Lance, even though it really isn’t, but luckily Hunk is more persistent than that.

 

“Nope, you’re going in the back.”

 

“Mad Max doesn’t rest, Hunk.”

 

With a snort and another pat, Hunk denies him with a firm “Good thing you’re not Mad Max” before walking ahead to where Allura has joined Pidge in crowding around the bus’ front wheel.

 

“I _am_ basically Mad Max, right? Keith?” Lance turns, prepared to wrestle acknowledgement from Keith, but the other man has stopped, brow furrowed deep as he blindly picks at the grains still captured in his hair. Apparently, the braid has proven to be a far better trap than the waistband of Lance’s pants. “Do ya need any help there, bud?”

 

Keith makes a sound of dubious consent, so Lance stands there with his hands hovering away from his sides. Only when Keith huffs in frustration and levels him with a glower – barely softened by the silent plea there – does Lance step forward.

 

“You could just undo the braid,” notes Lance as he plucks the wheat grain by grain. The scene reminds him of monkeys, and a dopey grin tugs at his mouth.

 

Keith’s hand comes up, not to interfere, but to rest his fingertips at the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. Lance’s eyes follow the movement before he realizes his own hands have halted. Quickly, and without acknowledging the pause, Lance resumes his picking.

 

“I like the braid,” mutters Keith.

 

“I see,” says Lance. His eyes slide up to glance at the bus – Hunk with his hands on his hips, head cocked and watching whatever it is the two crouched girls are doing at the wheel, and then Shiro, grinning and shaking his head. An odd something or other bubbles unpleasantly in the pit of Lance’s stomach. “Because Shiro did it for you?”

 

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” says Keith uncertainly, “But I just kind of like the feeling of having my hair braided back.”

 

“Oh.” The bubbles dissipate almost immediately, leaving Lance feeling embarrassed and a little vexed at his own pettiness. “You don’t tie your hair up often?”

 

“I didn’t realize it was long enough,” admits Keith.

 

“Then it’s a whole other ballgame with _that_ epiphany.” Lance digs the last visible grain from the braid and gives Keith an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Done. Good as new– That’s a lie. It’s a little frayed, sorry.”

 

Keith pats at his woven hair, brushing his fingertips over the strands that have come free. “S’fine. Thanks.”

 

“Yep, anytime,” chirps Lance before striding off towards the bus.

 

There’s still a bit of a thrumming in his bones, but he’s not so sure two and a half days of ballooning restless energy is wholly responsible. Whatever it is, it relocates itself and leaves in an incredulous laugh the moment Lance is close enough to peer around Hunk. Pidge and Allura look up with smiles disturbingly similar in execution.

 

“I thought they could use some decoration,” says Pidge nonchalantly, twisting the top back onto the lime green bottle of nail polish.

 

Allura, turning a deep red bottle in unison, tips her head just so, a lock of white hair freeing itself from her intricate braid. “They look much happier now, don’t they?”

 

It’s difficult to argue when every lug nut is sporting a cheerful expression rivalling the artistic quality of emojis. A fuschia face winks at Lance. He shakes his head but chortles nevertheless.

 

“They’re beautiful,” he says, “Thanks. I think.”

 

“You’re welcome,” says Pidge with a beaming smile.

 

“Sorry,” says Shiro from the headlight, standing with feet shoulder width apart and arms folded, “I said it probably wasn’t a good idea, but Allura said there was remover.”

 

“No, this is definitely okay,” Lance assures them all. It feels like the first step in his venture to turn the bus into something his own. The thought is a cheerful one. He gives the door a fond pat as he says, “It adds to her personality.”

 

“If I could make a nail polish version of Starry Night, you know I would,” says Pidge as she stands.

 

“And I wouldn’t stop you.”

 

“Did you get… whatever it was out of your system?” asks Shiro.

 

“Mostly,” admits Lance with a sheepish grin, “Sorry about that.”

 

“As long as you’re fine.”

 

“Hell yeah I am,” assures Lance, lifting his arm to boast about the bulky biceps he doesn’t have.

 

Hunk coughs into his fist. “I’m taking over driving. Lance needs his own turn getting his nails painted.”

 

With a familiar clatter, Allura collects the bottles of nail polish from the ground. “I am _on it_.”

 

* * *

 

There are grains stuck in crevices Lance didn’t realize he had. Now he can feel them every time he shifts and a nugget of wheat stabs him in the groin. He grimaces, but doesn’t move, because his hands are flat against the Monet painting on the back of the seat to allow his blue fingernails to dry. Allura was adamant that he kept his movement to a bare minimum – something about Keith wrecking like three nails. Lance tries not to be annoyed by the comparison – except, well, he’s actually trying to convince himself that he _is_ , in fact, annoyed in the first place and _therefore_ an attempt must be made to _not_ be annoyed.

 

The truth is, Lance doesn’t mind the feeling of kinship that little tidbit gives him; he minds not minding, however.

 

It’s all very confusing.

 

Lance flexes his fingers against the tape covering the painting. Pidge is up front with Hunk, Allura and Shiro taking the middle seat while, for whatever reason, Lance ended up seated next to Keith. To Lance, it didn’t seem like a good split, but Allura painted his nails with no problem, gave him one last stern glare and then turned around to talk to Shiro.

 

Lance senses a bias – one that he is almost glad for. A full conversation with Allura, minus the buffer of four other people? He expects he would combust.

 

But Keith?

 

“Would you stop fidgeting?”

 

He picks fights.

 

“No, Keith, I cannot _stop fidgeting_ ,” drawls Lance, “There’s wheat crowding my ass crack like they’re in line for the next log ride.”

 

“Oh, christ, forget I said anything–”

 

“Grain nestled in my groin, tucked in like tiny plant babies.”

 

“Lance–”

 

“Seeds in orifices I forgot existed, namely my belly button–”

 

_“Please, stop,”_ begs Keith, and Lance does so only because there’s a helpless smile tugging at the corners of Keith’s mouth. “You’re so gross.”

 

Lance finds himself grinning too. “Just so you know, I’m stopping because I ran out of synonyms.”

 

“You’ve no idea how happy I am about that.”

 

Maybe the fights aren’t so bad, actually.

 

They face forward. Allura and Shiro are discussing the political climate. Yikes. It’s more difficult to catch, but Hunk and Pidge are having a spat over the difference between neurohop and neurofunk. Lance is almost certain his nails aren’t tacky anymore. He moves his hands to rest on his knees and leans slightly towards Keith.

 

“Hey. Keith.”

 

“What?”

 

“There’s grist forming an audience to the musical that is my–”

 

“ _Shut up, oh my god_.”

 

Lance’s laugh is drowned out by Pidge’s squeal. Everyone behind the front seats switch their attention forward. Shiro is first to ask, but Lance sees the burning red of Hunk’s ears and he’s leaning forward as Pidge twists around in her seat.

 

“Hunk has a crush,” she says, dimples appearing in her cheeks when her impish smile widens, “Who believes all dubstep subgenres are essentially the same and clearly unappreciative of the minutia of such things. However, she is apparently a very kind, gentle soul, who reassured Hunk that his passing fancy with her brother was nothing to be ashamed of–”

 

“Okay, stop!” cries Hunk, shoulders hiked up halfway to his ears.

 

“Wait, you’re not straight?” asks Lance, baffled.

 

Keith shoots him a look. “ _That’s_ what you latch onto?”

 

“I’m curious, so sue me,” sniffs Lance.

 

Hunk’s shoulders hitch up higher. “I never said I was straight,” he mumbles, staring fixedly ahead, “I regret saying anything to you, Pidge.”

 

“I needed to share it,” says Pidge with a shrug, “Because while _I_ may not be able to give you advice about confessing, based on personal experience anyway, the rest of these fine folk probably can. And will. Happily.”

 

Lance threads his fingers together and flexes them outwards, cracking half the joints between his phalanges and causing Allura to grimace at the sound. “I’ve got your back, buddy. Lay it on us.”

 

Hunk shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”

 

“My dude, my guy, it’s the least I can do given that I made embarrassing assumptions about you.” Lance sees Hunk’s gaze flick to him through the rearview and he folds his arms over the back of Shiro and Allura’s seat. “Come on. We might actually be helpful.”

 

“There’s nothing to be helpful _about_. It’s not a thing that’s going to happen. Shay is…” Hunk trails off. He shrugs, switches lanes unnecessarily – not because he has to, but rather, and Lance can relate, just to give himself something to do. “Shay deserves more than me.”

 

And then Hunk is reaching over to turn up the volume of the music. Cascada. Way too upbeat.

 

The other occupants of the bus are quiet. Allura exchanges a glance with Shiro, and Lance sees her eyes flick to him in his periphery, but he’s focused on Hunk – the pucker of his brow visible in the mirror, the forced nonchalance in the way he taps a beat against the steering wheel. Lance doesn’t want to push, he doesn’t want to prod; he wants to give Hunk the space he desires and a change in conversation topic – but he also doesn’t want to let him continue thinking like that.

 

“Why do you think that?” asks Lance into the silence.

 

Pidge turns down the music.

 

Hunk shifts uncomfortably. “It’s just the truth, okay?”

 

“She’s not– it’s not as if–” Lance shakes his head. “Look, I can’t even come up with a scenario where you’re not worthy.”

 

“I’m not really all that great,” mumbles Hunk, quiet, as if he doesn’t really want them to hear, but Pidge is there turning the music right off.

 

“That’s not true,” starts Lance again, and he shoots Keith a look inviting him to join in at his earliest convenience.

 

Shiro, however, is next to leap in. “You have a lot of good qualities, Hunk,” he says with a level of mature sternness that Lance can’t help but envy, “Off the top of my head, I can say you’re strong. You helped lift the vehicle, no complaints.”

 

“And you’re smart,” adds Pidge, “You can’t deny that when you can keep up conversation about multiband programmable compression systems without prior knowledge.”

 

“I feel like I can trust you,” says Keith. Surprised he actually spoke up, Lance peers at him out of the corner of his eye. The other boy picks at the edge of the painted seat awkwardly. “I don’t often.”

 

Allura takes it from there, tipping her head to smile at Hunk through the mirror. “You let me paint your nails, Hunk. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

 

“Seconded,” pipes up Lance.

 

“Thirded,” says Pidge.

 

“...Fourthed?” says Keith with uncertainty, and Shiro stifles a chortle with his hand.

 

Lance doesn’t smother his own laugh. Keith scowls at him, but it’s weak. A swath of red creeps up his neck the longer Lance laughs, and Keith takes a swipe at him but all he does is dislodge some hidden wheat from his sleeve. The ensuing kerfuffle has a backdrop of chuckles from the others in the bus, but it isn’t until they call a truce that Lance realizes Hunk has joined in. It’s another moment of pride for himself, Lance thinks, because Hunk is a warm person that deserves laughter.

 

“Hunk is the best!” declares Lance with feeling, “All in agreement, say aye!”

 

“Aye!” shouts everyone else.

 

Hunk is shaking his head, but his breathing is jumping on the back of his chuckle and he’s smiling, so Lance smiles too.

 

* * *

 

Lance has his nose pressed against the window, eyes scouring the signs that pass by. Keith is doing the same on the other side, and Shiro is leaning forward between the two front seats. Tapping away at her phone, Allura lets out a dissatisfied huff.

 

“I’m coming up empty,” she says, “Any luck with you guys?”

 

The only gas station Lance has seen since entering the tiny town passes them by. “Nothing.”

 

“Nothing,” echoes Keith.

 

“Are we okay for gas?” asks Lance.

 

“Yeah, still good for another couple hours, maybe?” Hunk hums thoughtfully. “We can turn and fill up back there.”

 

“It’s closed.” Lance wrinkles his nose. “It’s not even that late!”

 

“It is for small towns,” says Shiro, “We’ll just have to keep going. Allura, can you find the next closest inn?”

 

“Of course.”

 

The sky is darkening rapidly. The last town they passed through, they saw two motels and a bed and breakfast, but at that time the sky was still light, if a little pink around the edges. Lance made the executive decision not to stop just yet, to push on until the next town since he took time running around a field of wheat. Now, however, the stars are beginning to twinkle into existence and Hunk turned on the lights not ten minutes previous.

 

They pass by the last house and the fields are back. Lance’s eyes try to catch on the fences whipping by them. A breeze passes over the fields, like some soundless invisible hand smoothing the tips of the crops. Lance feels his eyes strain to see anything in the dimming light, but it’s starting to give him a headache. Instead, he faces forward. He can’t see her face, but he can see the edges of Allura’s hair glowing in the light of her phone. Shiro’s murmuring something, his prosthetic glinting oddly when he shifts and points with his other hand at something on the screen. The harsh pinprick of light in the otherwise dark bus is another point of stress on Lance’s eyes, so he looks upwards.

 

The skylight for the bus is something that his brother took upon himself to install while under the influence, with the help of several other none-too-sober friends. Lance has always appreciated it, rough edges and all, even when it would rain and water would drip down onto his head as a kid. His sister sealed the edges so they would no longer leak, perfecting what could be perfected. The window is still clean, and there’s nothing but deep blue sky growing deeper, like leaving the shallows of a beach to drift out into the fathomless ocean.

 

“The next town with a motel is in fifty minutes,” Allura says softly.

 

Hunk thanks her and the music is turned up just slightly. It’s some instrumental version of a pop song Lance really enjoyed at the time, yet now he thinks it might be a little too soft. He can feel his eyelids growing heavier, but it isn’t yet a struggle to keep them open. Twisting around, he reaches into the trunk and pushes at whoever’s bag happens to be on top. Only his arm can fit through the gap that leaves, but it’s enough that Lance can yank out several sweaters from his own luggage. The fabric is thin, meant for cool summer nights, but bundled together they make a decent pillow, one which Lance puts behind his neck. He’s far more comfortable now, and it weighs heavy on his eyes, but with the sky velvet black-blue, stars bright and sparkling and visible through the skylight, he finds it easy stay awake.

 

A voice, hushed in the soft atmosphere of the bus, murmurs, “You can see Corona.”

 

Cheek brushing soft against his sweater, Lance tilts his head to look at Keith, who is peering out the back window of the bus. “What’s that?”

 

“The constellation, Corona Borealis,” repeats Keith, and despite Lance unable to clearly discern the features of his face, he thinks that maybe Keith’s eyes are gleaming. “Right there.”

 

Lance follows the straight line of Keith’s finger towards the cluttered mess of stars. “Which is it?”

 

“Those seven stars, shaped like a C.”

 

“I don’t see it.”

 

“Here.” And suddenly Keith is very much in Lance’s space, their sides brushing and then pressed together as Keith adjusts his arm. Lance forgets to breathe. There’s a tickle against his face, and he’s pretty sure it isn’t the sweater but Keith’s hair as the other boy tips his head. “Lean forward a bit. That bright one there. You got it?”

 

Hyper aware that he’s unable to swallow or gasp for breath without being obvious, Lance can’t do much else but nod ever so slightly. “Mm.”

 

“It curves up like that. Do you see it now?”

 

And, when Lance actually follows the moving lead of Keith’s finger, he does. “Oh.”

 

There’s a smile in Keith’s voice when he says, “That’s Corona.”

 

The space between them returns, but Lance’s breath takes a little longer. He turns forward again, readjusts the sweaters behind his head. Beside him, Keith does the same, except now he’s leaning forward slightly to peer out the skylight. Lance can’t pick out much in the dark, but he thinks he might be able to see the curves of Keith’s periphery silhouetted against Allura’s pale hair.

 

“What else is there?” Lance finds himself asking, also shifting forward. The sweaters land in a bundle behind him, shrugged off the moment he lifts his forearms to rest on the seat in front of them.

 

Keith’s elbow nudges Lance’s as he does the same. “See that one really bright star? A bit forward?”

 

Lance almost pretends he doesn’t. Almost. “Yeah, I think.”

 

“That’s one end of it, the star called Vega. The dimmer star right above it, and the little diamond beside it, those make up the rest of the constellation.”

 

“What’s it called?” asks Lance.

 

“Lyra,” answers Keith, and the word has slight lilt to it again, like he’s smiling. “A lot of constellations have a few names, but that one’s the best known.”

 

“Named after Orpheus’ lyre,” says Allura softly, her voice as gentle as the blanket of darkness around them.

 

“You know the constellations?”

 

“I can’t point them all out in the sky,” she replies, “But I know their stories.”

 

“What’s so special about a lyre that it’s got a bunch of stars named after it?” Lance wonders out loud, the words slightly muffled against his arm.

 

Allura shifts in her seat, leaning against the side of the car. “Orpheus’ music was said to be so enchanting that he could charm even the rocks and streams. After his wife, a nymph named Eurydice, was bitten by a snake and died, Orpheus went to the Underworld to bring her back. His music was so beautiful that even Hades could not resist its charm, and he allowed Orpheus to bring Eurydice back, but only on the condition that he not look back until they were outside. Unfortunately, the temptation was too strong, and he looked back before the end. Eurydice was unable to leave the Underworld, and Orpheus spent the rest of his days wandering with his lyre and rejecting all the women that wished to marry him. After he died, the muses placed his lyre into the sky to become the constellation Lyra.”

 

“That’s… kind of sad.”

 

“Mm, very few Greek myths end in happiness.”

 

“What other names does it have?”

 

“King Arthur’s Harp,” says Keith immediately, “Malleefowl, a bird. Urcuchillay was a llama.”

 

Lance leans forward further until he can see a handful of new stars, some of them brighter than their neighbours. “What else is there?”

 

Keith is eager to point out the patterns in the night sky. With each newly traced constellation, Allura is there with a myth to match, her voice a gentle lullaby. Shiro’s breathing becomes deep and slow enough that Lance takes his bundle of sweaters and stealthily plants it behind his neck.

 

Eventually, Lance sits back and draws his legs up to his chin. He can’t see the shapes that Keith is pointing out anymore, but he’s content simply to listen to his voice, and Allura’s, weaving together so pleasantly that Lance finds himself smiling slightly.

 

Until there’s a familiar buzzing sound – his phone vibrating within the cupholder – and Pidge’s slightly tired voice, “Lance, you’ve got a text from… your sister, I think.”

 

Lance’s feet hit the floor of the car at once. “God fuck,” he whispers, “Pass my phone, quick.”

 

It vibrates again. Pidge pulls the cords out of the phone and passes it back to Allura, who hands it to Lance, who in turn leans back in his seat and tries not to panic as he navigates to the message.

 

_where are you?_

_abuela maria is tired_

Lance’s fingers fly over the keyboard, and in his haste he butchers several words beyond autocorrect’s ability. It takes a few precious seconds to rectify the mistakes.

 

_sry still on the road_

_are you driving?_

_no hunk is_

_what_

Lance looks at the time and grimaces. He’s going to get chewed out for sure, but the motel is half an hour away.

 

_i dont think ill be able to talk to them tonight_

_tell them im sry_

_ill call tomoro_

He crosses his fingers, praying his sister won’t push the matter, and that she might defend him against the disapproving tuts of their grandparents and the rolling stinkeye of their parents. His phone buzzes.

 

_k ill tell them_

_this better not be an axe murderer posing as my bro_

A relieved huff escapes Lance at the joke. He responds with an excessive number of hearts to reassure his sister that he is, in fact, alive and kicking.

 

“You good?” asks Pidge as she hooks the phone back up for music.

 

“Yeah, sorry,” says Lance, “It was nothing.”

 

Nobody pushes it.

 

* * *

 

“‘Night,” Lance calls down the hall as Shiro and Keith disappear into the room beside Lance and Hunk’s, and Allura waves as she and Pidge vanish further down. He closes the door behind him and stretches his limbs over his head. “Thanks again for driving, Hunk. Especially in the dark.”

 

“It’s no big deal,” says Hunk with a dismissive shrug, “I’m used to driving at night. It was worth it for the stars.”

 

“But you didn’t get to really see them.” Lance dives onto his bed while Hunk plugs his phone into the wall. “Allura and Keith were like, tagteaming it.”

 

Hunk makes a fond sound through his nose. “Yeah. That was pretty great.”

 

“Maybe we can stargaze or something,” suggests Lance, rolling sideways until he’s close enough to the window to kick the blinds aside. The sky is still clear and twinkling, even with the artificial light in the parking lot.

 

“Not tonight, I don’t want to fall asleep on the roof or something.”

 

“Not tonight,” agrees Lance.

 

Hunk moves into the bathroom to change. Lance just kicks off his pants and tries to reach for his shorts with his toes. He fails and resorts to rolling back the opposite direction until he can grab them with his hands and pull them on. By then, Hunk is out of the bathroom and folding up his clothes. Lance kicks his legs out wide on the bed and rests his head back on his hands.

 

“You know earlier,” says Hunk, drawing Lance’s gaze, “When you were all um, being really nice to me?”

 

Lance nods slowly. “What about it?”

 

“Well, I just wanted to point out, you have a lot of really good traits, too.” The ruddy tinge is back on Hunk’s face.

 

The sentiment, in Lance’s opinion, comes out of nowhere. “I’m sure I do.”

 

Apparently those words aren’t the right ones, because Hunk frowns. He points at Lance and snaps his fingers as if Lance just proved his point.

 

“That’s why I’m saying it,” says Hunk, “ _I’m sure I do_ implies you can’t come up with any off the top of your head.”

 

“Uh.”

 

“You’re incredibly kind.” He folds his arms across his broad chest. “You have good judgement. You’re good at talking to people, and making sure nobody is left out. You’re warm, and open to change, and comfortable to be around.” Hunk inhales, face red, and puffs his chest out. “And if it isn’t too presumptuous of me to say so, I think you’re a good friend to have!”

 

Lance blinks at him. It’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever heard directed at himself. Lance? A good friend to have? It’s sad to say that Lance doesn’t totally believe it. He doesn’t think he’s all that kind – prone to impulsive decisions that could be interpreted as such, maybe – and he definitely doesn’t have good judgement, and he only really includes people because it itches him the wrong way otherwise. He doesn’t count himself as _warm_.

 

But it’s coming from Hunk, a beautiful man with a face so honest and a heart so golden that Lance can’t help but feel a little fond hum in his chest. Despite knowing he isn’t worthy of such kind words, Lance wishes he could be. Maybe that’s a start.

 

Lance opens his mouth to thank him, but he hesitated too long and there’s a pillow soaring at his face. He flings out his arms, but they’re pinned under his head and by the time they’re free, he’s already spluttering at the pillow smothering his face.

 

“Hey!” Lance grabs the pillow and flings it across the room at a smirking Hunk.

 

“If words don’t work, I’ll use force,” declares Hunk the instant he catches the pillow. His other hand goes to grab more ammunition.

 

Lance dives off the edge of the bed, ducking just in time to avoid getting decapitated. “Not fair! You have a strength advantage!”

 

Hunk outright _cackles_ and comes around the corner to go in for a close range mauling. Lance grabs the spent pillow and rolls across the mattress, snatching another on the way. It becomes clear that while Hunk has a stronger throw, Lance has far better aim, and he nails Hunk in the head on more than one occasion. His own downfall is gloating his victory too long and rendering himself defenceless to the downpour of pillows that Hunk was hoarding.

 

Their fight brings Keith to their door, the boy opening it with a scowl, ready to tell them off. He receives a pillow to the face and another somersaults over his head. Hunk and Lance pause for half a second before they burst out laughing, and then Keith is charging at them, dual wielding cushions like they’re swords. It isn’t until Shiro arrives with a pillow of his own and whoops them all into submission that they eventually tire enough to fall asleep.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took awhile BUT THERE YOU HAVE IT!! 
> 
> klance big bang submissions are due in may and im sitting here like a twit writing everything BUT THAT. HECK.
> 
> ANYWHO if you see any mistakes or anything lemme know ok?? ok!!! (≖ᴗ≖✿)


	4. Day Four

In the morning, all the pillows are on the floor, and Lance’s neck is suffering for it, but he can’t bring himself to mind too much. There’s a soft, fuzzy feeling, warm in his belly and his chest, light as a spring breeze and just as hopeful. Lance sits up, looking over at where Hunk is also a crumpled and pillowless heap on his bed. Beside his head, his phone screen lights up just before the first few notes of a Radical Face song start playing. Hunk turns it off blindly, his hands used to the swipe of summoning sweet silence. As Hunk begins his slow journey into wakefulness, Lance stands and stretches out every limb. 

 

“Mmph,” mumbles Hunk.

 

“Same,” says Lance sagely.

 

Hunk squints at him groggily, sitting up now and his hair a short halo about his head. “Why’re you so chipper?”

 

“It’s a good morning,” says Lance, and he isn’t exaggerating. He has a feeling it’s going to be a great day.

 

He pauses during his circuit of the room, stretching all the while, to take a peek through the window. The view is of the parking lot, the bus half hidden by the minty green overhang of the lower floor. Nobody is out jogging this time. Lance wants to roll his eyes at his own seed of disappointment.

 

“Hey, Lance?”

 

He turns at the sound of his name. Hunk is already dressed, the bathroom fan still on and audibly whirring from the open door. 

 

“Have you had a shower yet?” he asks, a towel slung over one shoulder.

 

Lance purses his lips. Whoops. “You mean, since the trip started? I may have… forgotten.”

 

“You first, then,” says Hunk, and he balls up the towel and tosses it at Lance, who catches it before it can smack his face.

 

“Right, yep, great idea,” agrees Lance, and he marches directly into the bathroom, shedding clothes all the while.

 

* * *

 

When Lance comes out of the shower, feeling even  _ fresher _ than before, Hunk has already made his bed – out of unnecessary kindness – and left the room. Lance dresses quickly, sighing in relief when clean clothes slide over clean skin. Thank god for Hunk. 

 

He walks downstairs, expecting and seeing Allura first. She’s sitting alone on a couch, fingers hooked through a cup of tea, her other hand occupied with her phone. As Lance approaches, she leans over without looking to put the cup down on the coffee table with a hard tap. Her brow is furrowed deep, casting shadows over her eyes that make her look tired – and older. Lance has to remind himself that she’s in her mid twenties. Sometimes it’s easy to forget when she acts the way she does.

 

“Did you sleep okay?” asks Lance, opting to lean on the back of the couch. 

 

Allura jolts and looks up at him. “Oh! Good morning, Lance. Yes, I slept fine. Did you?” she adds as a clear afterthought, perplexed as to why Lance was asking in the first place.

 

He cocks a grin and says, “I just thought you looked a little worse for wear. Everything else okay?”

 

“Do I really look that tired?” Allura grimaces and puts her phone face down on the table with a little more force than necessary. “Yes, everything else is fine. I just had a… minor disagreement with my godfather. He’s a little overbearing, you see.”

 

“And you’re here hitchhiking across the country with five complete strangers.” Lance gives the couch a pat as he strings together the kinds of things an overprotective family member might feel after learning  _ that _ .

 

“I know it isn’t exactly the safest thing to do,” says Allura, reaching for her tea, “But it’s working out nicely, isn’t it? Unless,” she adds with a grin, “You plan on taking an axe to us later today?”

 

Lance shrugs. “The option is there.”

 

He’s rewarded with a breezy chortle. Satisfied, Lance excuses himself to finally eat lest he forget in the dazzling white of Allura’s smile. By the time he’s filled a plate of what appears to be thawed frozen fruits covered in yogurt, the only other person to present themselves besides himself and Allura is Pidge. 

 

“Morning,” he says cheerfully as he takes a seat on one of the couches, stretching out his legs and slumping to allow his plate to balance on his stomach.

 

Pidge grunts something complicated as if it’s an actual language.

 

“Where’s Hunk?” asks Lance, stuffing food into his mouth, “He left before me.”

 

“Oh, he’s outside with Keith and Shiro,” says Allura.

 

Lance stares at her and whispers, “ _ Exercising?” _

 

“Hah,” says Pidge, “Hunk is ditching you for the jocks.”

 

“ _ No _ ,” breathes Lance in dismay.

 

“Hunk said something about yoga,” adds Allura.

 

“Oh.” Pause. Contemplation. “ _ Oh.” _

 

“They’re probably still at it.” Allura raises her eyebrows, smiling slightly over the rim of her tea. “If you wanted to join. Or watch.”

 

“Um,” begins Lance, and he’s already inching towards the door. “Maybe I’ll just take a peek.”

 

“Last time I checked, neither Shiro nor Keith were wearing shirts,” says Allura idly. Lance stares at her. She sips her tea.

 

Lance spins on his heel and marches right through the doors into the parking lot. He slows almost immediately when he sees the first bare shoulder. A few inches below it, skin gives way to plastic and metal, a false arm raised high. Something about the sight unsettles Lance in a way that he knows is wrong, and his step falters – until he sees Shiro’s expression, calm and content with eyes shut against the ascending sun. The uncomfortable feeling dissolves like sugar in hot water. It’s a reminder that Shiro is no Adonis, but a human, approachable and real.

 

Then Lance’s gaze slides almost unintentionally to Keith in the same balancing pose – pale skin splotchy red with exertion, marked with silvery scars that healed rough and freckles like inverted constellations. Lance is enthralled by the curve of his muscles, but mostly by the human flaws marring his skin. Something about that warms Lance, a tickle in his belly and butterflies unfurling happily in his chest. 

 

It isn’t until Hunk says his name that Lance realizes he’s staring, and he quickly shakes himself and casts Hunk a grin. The other man flattens his bare feet – the only one lacking shoes – to the smooth pavement and plants his hands on his hips. 

 

“I’m a little put out that I wasn’t invited,” says Lance with a pout.

 

“If only you didn’t take so long to shower,” retorts Hunk and Lance has to snort at that. 

 

By then, Shiro and Keith have both relaxed their stances. Lance tries not to feel so  _ aware _ that they’re looking at him.

 

“Well now it’s these two stinkies’ turn to shower,” says Lance with a nod to Keith and Shiro.

 

Keith’s head twitches towards Shiro and then he’s spinning on his heel – “Dibs!” – and running for the front doors. Shiro takes a half step after him, but Keith is gone. He settles for sighing, reminiscent of Lance’s elder brother, who would do the same whenever he wanted to look mature despite his readiness to crush a child – namely Lance, tiny but speedy – in a race. Hunk steps forward to scoop up the discarded tees, handing them to Shiro.

 

“Thanks for joining me,” says Hunk with a smile.

 

Shiro grins at him and slings the shirts over his shoulder. “That was the perfect end to a run. We should be thanking  _ you _ for running us through those poses.”

 

“Maybe we can do it again tomorrow?”

 

“For sure,” says Shiro warmly, and Hunk beams. “And you, Lance?”

 

Lance blinks and finds himself nodding fervently. “Count me in!” 

 

“Great, maybe we can get the girls to jump in, too. One last morning hurrah?”

 

“Hell yeah!”

 

Shiro walks in ahead of them as Hunk returns his shoes to his feet. 

 

“I didn’t know you did yoga,” says Lance as Hunk ties up his shoelaces.

 

Hunk is still smiling as he straightens up. “It never came up. You probably have a lot more we don’t know about, right?”

 

Lance wrinkles his nose as he thinks about it, but he concedes, “Yeah. I mean, at what point might I say I have a special skill of being able to touch my ear like this –” And then he proceeds to wrap his arm around the back of his head, under his chin, to pinch his earlobe. 

 

Hunk’s expression goes from content to mortified in two seconds flat. “Oh god, stop that!”

 

Lance practically cackles as he flings his arm back down in time to push open the motel doors. When they enter the lobby they’re greeted by a red-faced Allura mopping at a tea stain on her lap, and Pidge wearing a smile the Cheshire cat could envy.

 

“Uh?” says Hunk in lieu of a proper question.

 

“Shiro has the pectorals of a  _ god,”  _ deadpans Pidge while somehow maintaining her wicked grin. 

 

Allura’s skin tone has surpassed that of a sunburnt lobster doused in tomato juice, but it’s with some twisted sort of dignity that she says, “Imagine if he hadn’t been covering one up.”

 

Hunk snorts, loudly. Pidge’s smile finally breaks with a hiccup as she tries and fails to smother her cackles, and Lance laughs so hard there’s a real danger of him peeing himself.

 

* * *

 

It’s with a new level of excitement that the group face the fourth day of their road trip. Hunk volunteers to drive first, allowing Lance to turn their next crafting venture into a competition against Keith, who – no matter how much he complains – always dives in headfirst. Allura, apparently, packed more than just clothing. Besides the embroidery thread, nail polish, and abundance of hair ties that went into their elaborate braids the day before, she also has little beads. It begins with a lesson in threading them using the string, and then turns into a course in Pokémon anatomy as they try to create sculptures out of beads and thread. 

 

“The colour is all wrong,” insists Lance as Hunk begins to pull into the first pitstop of the day in Chicago.

 

“It’s perfect,” retorts Keith, “Shiro, is this not the colour of cyndaquil?”

 

“Uh,” says Shiro.

 

“It’s perfect,” repeats Keith anyway, allowing Shiro to return to beading with Allura in the middle seats. 

 

Lance rolls his eyes. “It’s  _ too _ blue.”

 

“Your squirtle is too blue.”

 

“ _ Excuse me _ , this is a  _ shiny _ squirtle. The first shiny I ever got in game.” Lance smiles fondly down at his half formed squirtle head. “I named her Shelly.”

 

Keith’s snort is far more violent than it has any right to be. “ _ Shelly _ .”

 

Lance shoots him a dirty look. “Why kind of asshat can’t even get the colour of their favourite Pokémon right?”

 

“Cyndaquil isn’t my favourite,” sniffs Keith.

 

“Then what is?”

 

“Typhlosion.”

 

“You realize they have the exact same colour scheme, right?”

 

“Fake fan,” calls Pidge from the front seat as the bus comes to a halt in the parking lot.

 

“Now while usually I would be delighted that you intend to take my side,” says Lance, “I don’t think I can be when you – what was it you said?”

 

“Pokémon is for basic bitches,” supplies Keith.

 

“Yes, that.  _ Thank you _ . Your colour scheme is still wrong.”

 

Allura and Shiro bail out of the bus with haste, allowing Lance the space – or rather there isn’t any space, but he makes it happen, kicking the sunroof as he goes – to roll into the middle seats. Pidge twists around to prop her chin on the shoulder of the seat with a cheerful smile.

 

“Digimon is where it’s at,” she declares, and dangles the nearly complete beaded model of Tentomon in Lance’s face.

 

“How the shit did you do that so fast?” he says, half his sentence coming out as a wheeze when Keith slithers over the seat and onto Lance’s ribs. They straighten themselves out with a few knocked elbows as Pidge scoffs.

 

“What can I say,” she says, “My fingers are nimble.”

 

“Witchcraft,” decides Lance. 

 

Pidge tuts but doesn’t argue it. She hops out of the bus to stretch her legs and the rest follow after her. Hunk begins to do some leisurely bends that look suspiciously like yoga. Lance copies his poses, maybe a little too focused for the tranquility that yoga was supposed to provide. Pidge follows along as well, but Keith vanishes after Shiro and Allura into the gas station. 

 

It takes Hunk a good minute to realize that he’s got two very intent disciples, and he huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t stop, just deepening the stretch. 

 

“Are you going to join a yoga class in the city?” asks Lance as they switch into balancing poses. 

 

Hunk shrugs. “I usually just do it on my own, but it is easier to follow along with someone else. Otherwise I end up falling asleep in corpse pose.”

 

“Corpse pose sounds like my kind of exercise,” drawls Pidge.

 

“You could probably use it,” snorts Hunk, “Allura tells me you never sleep.”

 

“She dares spread my secrets?”

 

“Those circles under your eyes aren’t secrets,” points out Lance.

 

“They’re part of my  _ aesthetic _ .”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Hunk switches feet, and the others follow along. “Maybe you should try yoga once in awhile. I mean, you’re not  _ supposed _ to fall asleep during it, but if it helps, why not?”

 

“I did try yoga once,” admits Pidge, “Matt had a…  _ phase _ . He’d get me to rub a healing crystal or something every time I left the house, his voice went all funny when he was trying to be  _ meditative _ – but I got him to lick one of those Himalayan salt lamps. Bonus.”

 

“Are they salty?” asks Lance.

 

“They’re called salt lamps for a reason.”

 

“Huh, good to know.”

 

“If you’re curious enough to lick one yourself,” says Pidge seriously, “Please send me a snap or something.”

 

“Of course. Did you get a recording of Matt doing it?”

 

“No, I regret so much,” sighs Pidge. They switch to the next pose, but she’s slightly slower to follow along. Her voice is small when she says, “I miss him.”

 

Hunk lifts his hands to the sky in a smooth motion that Lance tries, and fails, to replicate. “Your brother?”

 

“Mm. He was my best friend.” Her brow puckers slightly.

 

Lance catches Hunk glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Was?” asks Lance tentatively.

 

Pidge shakes her head and the motion causes her stance to waver. “He… he  _ is _ . It’s just that, y’know, he has his own friends now.”

 

“But you’re still his best friend,” says Lance.

 

Her reply is an ambiguous groan.

 

“I’m gonna be honest here, I don’t know what–” Lance mimics the sound terribly, “– is supposed to mean.”

 

Pidge huffs. “It means I  _ don’t know _ . I just told you, he has new friends.”

 

“But you realize  _ best _ doesn’t have to be singular,” says Hunk, “He can have other friends, new ones, but that doesn’t mean you’re suddenly not his best friend anymore.”

 

She makes another version of the same sound, and then catches Lance rolling his eyes and lunges out of her pose to kick him. With a squawk and a brief scuffle, they return to their stances, Hunk raising his eyebrows at the two of them. When they settle, Hunk transitions into the next pose. 

 

“My best friend moved away,” he says as their legs stretch and their arms drift outwards, “She made a ton of new friends – and I mean  _ a ton _ . She’s friendly, and outgoing, and easy to talk to, so of course people would gravitate towards her. Honestly, I was jealous. I thought they were stealing her away, because she was always doing something with these new people, and I had no idea who any of them were. It took me awhile, but I realized that her new happiness with these friends didn’t make me any less a friend to her. She still sent me pictures, told me stories, mentioned things that reminded her of me – and I knew I wasn’t about to be  _ replaced _ . I fill a part of her life, and those new friends fill in other parts.”

 

After a beat of silence, Lance says, “That’s… really sweet.” He breaks his pose to fold his hands over his heart. “How is it that everything that comes out of your mouth is so sweet, Hunk?  _ How?” _

 

“For real,” says Pidge, “I gotta ask – is this  _ she _ , perchance, a lady named Shay?”

 

Hunk’s face darkens into a ruddy brown. “ _ Not the point _ . The point is that your brother isn’t replacing you.”

 

Pidge purses her lips, but the corner is trying persistently to tug into a smile. “Thanks, Hunk.”

 

“I got you,” says Hunk definitively.

 

“Best bro Hunk,” chirps Lance, “Takes turns driving, does yoga, gives good advice.”

 

“Best bro Hunk,” parrots Pidge.

 

“Best bro Hunk.”

 

“Best bro Hunk.”

 

“Alright, guys,” laughs Hunk, his face even redder, “I think I got it. Thanks.”

 

“Best bro Hunk,” says Pidge, “Gives thanks for being thanked.”

 

“Best bro Hunk,” says Lance, “Pretends he doesn’t deserve thanks.”

 

“Oh my god,” splutters Hunk, “Seriously.”

 

“What is going on?” asks Shiro, their trio returning with water bottles in hand. 

 

Lance wheels around and flings his hands out towards Hunk. “He’s the best bro.”

 

Pidge frames his other side, sticking a leg out behind her dramatically. “The best bro.”

 

“I see,” says Shiro. 

 

Keith peeks around him, looking perplexed. “Didn’t we already know that Hunk was the best?”

 

Hunk drops his burning face into his hands while Pidge and Lance crow their glee.

 

* * *

 

“Thank god there are trees,” says Lance, voice hoarse from belting along to Ke$ha – music choice courtesy of Keith. “Just when I thought we were free of fields, we hit the city, and that’s basically just as bad on a road trip. Give me  _ all the trees.” _

 

“And here they are,” says Keith, tilting his head back against the headrest, “So many trees.”

 

“They’re all really short, though.”

 

“That’s ‘cause you’re coming from the Rockies,” points out Hunk, just finishing up on his beaded version of a geodude. 

 

“Yeah, I’m used to my trees big and girthy,” sighs Lance.

 

The gap of silence between his words and the start of a new song is a heavy one, full of pursed lips as the other occupants of the bus refuse to rise to the bait. When it stretches on too long, Lance buckles first.

 

“Cool lake,” he says as they pass what is essentially a pond. 

 

“Uh huh,” says Hunk.

 

“Mmhm,” says Pidge.

 

“Sure,” says Keith. 

 

“Wanna go swimming?”

 

Keith snorts in the same moment that Pidge laughs. When Lance doesn’t say anything else, they realize he’s serious and Pidge grips the shoulder of his seat.

 

“In that puddle?” she asks skeptically.

 

“Hell no.” Lance leans forward over the steering wheel. “Once there’s a big one. With maybe a little beach type thing. If any of you see one, holler.”

 

“I don’t have a bathing suit,” begins Hunk, unsure.

 

“It’s fine, nothing is going to dry  _ anyway _ ,” says Lance with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Just wear shorts or something. Or underwear, I mean, I don’t mind at all–”

 

Hunk cuts him off, amused, “I’ve got shorts.”

 

“Nice.”

 

“I don’t have a swimsuit with me,” pipes up Allura, “But I’ll only put my feet in, regardless.”

 

Pidge claps her hands together. “Well, shit, if taking a break and swimming is an option, I’m here for it.”

 

“Only as long as you don’t try to make up for lost time driving tonight,” says Shiro sternly. 

 

Lance can’t help but snort at his swift adoption of a parental persona. “Sure thing, dad.”

 

There’s another pregnant pause. Barely a single simultaneous syllable leaves Pidge and Hunk’s mouths before Shiro is raising his voice with authority.

 

“Nope. No. Not doing that.”

 

They settle for disappointed groans instead. 

 

Lance chortles and flicks his gaze off the road briefly to look at Keith. “And you? Are you gonna swim?”

 

Keith blinks at him as if he only just tuned into the conversation, but he says, “Oh, yeah, for sure.”

 

“Awesome.” Lance adjusts his grip on the wheel, his grin widening. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

 

With a mumbled assent, Keith turns to stare out the window, leaving Lance to feel as though he just missed something – but he can’t for the life of him place what it is, so he decides to shrug it off. 

 

It takes another half hour and maybe, possibly, Lance forgetting about the entire thing, for Hunk to pipe up. They are just coasting over a bridge, trees opening up over glimmering water when his hand hits the window.

 

“Ow – Ah! Water!”

 

“Yes, water,” says Pidge slowly.

 

“Swimming!”

 

“ _ Oh. _ What d’you think, Lance?”

 

Craning his neck, Lance multitasks looking past the railing of the bridge and keeping the bus in its lane. The water appears deep, and further down there seem to be docks for cottages, so it must be fit for swimming. Unfortunately there are no parking spots off the bridge, but Lance decides the shoulder will do just fine. There’s some grass flattened just off the shoulder on the other side of the bridge, so Lance slows the bus down and steers it to sit half on the paved shoulder, half on roughened grass. Everyone gets out eagerly, Lance the first to open the back to dig around for his swim trunks.

 

“Question,” says Pidge.

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Where are we changing?”

 

Lance straightens from where he’s stooped to squint at the trees clustered around the lake. “Behind a tree?”

 

Pidge follows his gaze and for a moment she looks skeptical, but then she shrugs. “Alright, I guess.”

 

Hunk hesitates behind Pidge as she replaces Lance and dives into her bag. For a moment he actually twiddles his thumbs, and Lance pauses mid step, half turning towards Hunk – but then the moment seems to pass, and Hunk’s expression falls into neutrality. Lance staggers on uneven feet until he corrects his balance. It’s the second time in under an hour that he’s wanted to ask, except he isn’t sure  _ what _ exactly he would ask.

 

So he shrugs it off, but gets the sneaking suspicion that he’ll be addressing it later on anyway. 

 

Down by the water, Pidge points the boys in inconvenient directions while she takes the prime spot behind some dense shrubs. It isn’t a surprise when Lance returns, trying and failing to rub sap off his arm, to find Pidge in a one piece and already up to her knees in water. Allura and Shiro are talking further down the sandy stretch. Keith isn’t far behind Lance, in a pair of shorts that he is pulling on restlessly. Lance watches him for a moment, opening his mouth to ask, but then Hunk arrives last, also wearing shorts, but a shirt to boot. He really isn’t one to judge, but Lance only remembers one instance in which he went swimming with a t-shirt on, and that was because he had a terrible sunburn but refused to be kept from the water. 

 

So Lance blurts out, “Why the hell are you wearing a shirt?”

 

Both Keith and Hunk stare at him. A spray of water hits Lance in the side of his face. He whips around indignantly to where Pidge is giving him an unimpressed look. Slowly, she folds her arms across her chest, lime green and stripy. Something cold trickles down Lance’s spine. It takes him a moment to realize the sensation isn’t real. He turns back to Hunk, who – besides his reddening cheeks – has an odd quirk to his mouth. Lance can tell he’s embarrassed – and so is he.

 

“Shit,” says Lance, quickly lifting his hands apologetically, “Forget I said anything. That was a stupid thing to say.” And he was doing so well lately, what the  _ fuck _ kind of insensitive asshole –

 

He trails off his own mental beration of himself, forcing silence like cotton balls in his own head. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t – this is one of those rare times it does, and he’s glad for it. His mouth is already dry, and he really just wants to toss himself off a cliff.

 

Speaking of cliffs, he thinks he might spot a suitable rock to dive off of. 

 

“Cliff jumping,” decides Lance, pointing towards the rock. 

 

The act of lifting his hand seems to cut through the awkward atmosphere and Pidge claps her hands together delightedly. Keith has an awkward expression glued to his face, but Hunk relaxes and smiles nervously.

 

“It’s not  _ really _ that high, is it?” he asks as Lance starts marching towards the rock.

 

It’s definitely a few yards up at its highest point. Lance shrugs. “Not high to me.”

 

“I think that means it’s pretty damn high, considering,” says Pidge as she splashes through the water instead of walking on dry land.

 

The soft sand gives way to rough grass that softens and blends with mulch as they enter the line of trees. Behind them, Shiro and Allura are wandering off towards the underpass created by the bridge. Lance expects there’s a story forming there, but one that he might not get to hear for some time. 

 

Months of running around on hot pavement barefoot has toughened Lance’s feet, so he steps on and over the roots in his path freely. The others slow down, taking more care to pick their way between the trees. Eventually Pidge joins them, complaining about a gunky area beneath her feet.

 

Lance comes to a halt at the miniature cliff – or what he had hoped was the base of it. Instead, it’s a steep incline covered in various creeping plants, the very bottom rounded and mossy. He tuts as he scrutinizes it, running through the options in his head. There’s already a possible path up, but that requires climbing, and he isn’t sure how well the others can trust their toes and fingers like he can. 

 

“Okay, plan,” says Lance, turning around to address the small group, “I climb up, because I can.”

 

“You sure?” asks Hunk, skeptical but trying to be nice about it.

 

“Yes. Yes, I can. Anyway, I go up, and try to look for another way up that might be easier.  _ Unless _ you guys think you can get up.”

 

Pidge eyes the rock, then frowns down at her own fingers, flexing them in towards her palms. She nods once and looks at Lance. “I think I got it.”

 

“I can do it,” says Keith, while Hunk laces his fingers in front of his belly, wrinkling his nose as he says, “I might need help, but I could probably manage.”

 

Lance bobs his head in a nod. Briefly he makes a show of cracking his knuckles, then steps up towards what is essentially a massive boulder. He finds the deepest crevices in the rock and jams his fingers and toes in. Then it’s just a matter of hauling himself up, feeling around for another handhold and planting his foot where the stone bubbles out. Once he’s high enough, the slope of the boulder lessens, and Lance is able to rise to his feet and walk the rest of the way. Planting his hands on his hips proudly, he swivels around on the balls of his feet and grins down at his audience.

 

“Easy as pie,” he declares.

 

Pidge snorts, loud, but gets to work scaling up. It’s clear she was paying rapt attention to where Lance put his weight, because the younger girl has no problems monkeying upwards. Her expression reads as disinterested with her success, but as she straightens up, Lance sees the proud edge that has Pidge tossing her head and tipping her chin upwards just slightly. 

 

“I’m having second thoughts,” declares Hunk, his gaze flicking between the shallow cracks in the rock that both Lance and Pidge used to scale it. 

 

Keith plants a hand on the cool surface as the two successes kneel where the rock begins to slope steeply. “Watch where I put my feet and try after.”

 

Hunk doesn’t look reassured, but he motions for Keith to go ahead. Lance tests the texture of the boulder beneath him with his heels. It isn’t smooth enough that he’ll slide right off if he tries to press his heels against it for leverage, and some spots of moss are tougher to dislodge than others. He remains crouched while Pidge takes to wandering, evidently assuming that Keith won’t require any help – a valid assumption, Lance thinks. 

 

While he clearly wasn’t obsessing over the climb like Pidge, Keith is doing just fine on his own. With Hunk’s eyes frantically glued to his every move, Keith shifts his weight from limb to limb. His route requires more footholds than Lance’s, but he’s nearly where the rock begins to level off – until Lance sees his eyes go wide and his chest slam into the rock. Lance lunges as Keith slaps his palm down for grip, wrapping his fingers around Keith’s arm. They freeze like that, Hunk twittering anxiously from a yard below Keith’s dangling foot. 

 

“Shit,” wheezes Keith, wincing. His bicep flexes under Lance’s hand as he begins to haul himself up again.

 

Lance can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, the blood rushing cold adrenaline to his fingertips. He doesn’t release Keith even when he’s safe beside him, crouched because Lance’s grip is iron. Keith has the audacity to blink a silent inquiry at Lance, who realizes he’s so lightheaded because he’s holding his breath. With a barely stifled gasp, oxygen fills his lungs again. 

 

“What the  _ fuck?” _ he whispers hoarsely, scowling at the other man.

 

Keith looks down at the hand on his arm. “Um, I stepped on moss and it broke off?”

 

“I can’t  _ believe you _ ,” hisses Lance, going straight to angry mother hen mode. “You scared the shit out of me. Don’t do that again, or I  _ swear to god _ I’ll chop off all your hair.”

 

The expression Keith is wearing now is far more worried than it was when he was sliding down the rock. “Right,” he says, “I’ll… try to avoid that in the future.” And perhaps it’s the oxygen making its way back to his head, but Lance thinks maybe Keith’s face is turning redder than it has any reason to. 

 

It’s also then that Lance remembers his grip and loosens it, stiff fingers refusing to straighten properly. Keith doesn’t wrench his arm away as soon as Lance releases him. They’re left kneeling on the boulder, avoiding each other’s gazes but not really, a hand hovering over an arm and a weird silence descending between them.

 

Until Pidge steps down to them, bare feet slapping against the rock, to address Hunk now pacing down below. “Calm down, you can get up. It’s not a far drop anyway. You could jump and we could grab your arm if you wanted.”

 

“I don’t think it’s quite  _ that _ short,” Lance forces himself to pipe up, finally drawing his hand back. 

 

“You guys go ahead, I’ll just splash around in the shallows,” says Hunk with false cheer, “Besides, once we jump, we’d have to climb back up again and  _ that’s _ not going to happen.”

 

“Not with that attitude.” Lance runs a hand through his hair a couple times, but the motion doesn’t immediately dissipate the lingering adrenaline that’s a restless hum in his chest.

 

“No, seriously, I’ll just swim around,” says Hunk, his smile widening, “I’ll see you guys down there.”

 

“Aw, come on, Hunk,” whines Pidge, but he’s marching off with determination, interrupted by a stone in the bottom of his foot. 

 

“Then I guess it’s just us taking a leap of faith,” says Lance, standing up and walking up the boulder. 

 

It slopes slightly further, but not by much until it’s jutting out into the water. The depth looks fair enough, a dark colour that sucks away any visible form of the boulder extending downwards. Lance is maybe glad Hunk is down there now, stepping into the water. Once he’s waded out, Hunk bobs down with his arms extended. The tips of his fingers disappear, and he doesn’t break the surface that quickly. With his t-shirt billowing out oddly with the water, Hunk gives them a thumbs up.

 

“He didn’t touch the bottom but I’m gonna say no to headfirst dives,” suggests Lance as he steps back from the edge to look at his companions.

 

“Fine by me,” shrugs Pidge as she backs up, “I can’t dive for the life of me anyway. Cannon balls all the way.”

 

“Sounds basic–” begins Lance just as Pidge flies past him and launches herself into the air. “Holy shit.”

 

All he hears is a splash and Hunk’s incredulous laugh from below. Keith joins Lance to peek down at the broiling mass of bubbles that marks Pidge’s entry point. 

 

“If that’s basic, how were you planning on jumping?” asks Keith.

 

“Well, y’know, I was hoping to toss in a flip or something,” says Lance slowly as Pidge breaches the surface. 

 

“Right.”

 

“No fancy stuff, just jump!” Hunk calls up to them.

 

It takes a short while to muster his courage – helped along by the fact Pidge threw herself over first – before Lance can take the jump. The feeling of air beneath his body is worth it, but the time spent in the air itself is never as long as he wants. He yearns to embrace the feeling of hanging there, dangling with no earth under the soles of his feet. However, the water is there to accept him in a heartbeat, cloaking him in its wet chill as its bubbling weight presses against him. He breaks the surface, exhaling on an exhilarating laugh. Shaking the water out of his eyes, Lance spots Keith looking down at him with a grin, one hand braced on his knee as he peers out. Hunk is paddling after Pidge, who is climbing a rock ledge accessible from the water.

 

Keith joins them in the water soon enough, jumping the moment Lance looks away, much to his chagrin. A splash fight ensues almost immediately. Meanwhile the ledge, as it turns out, gives them both a place to dive off and a place to sit once they’ve tired. Once they have, Hunk takes to floating in the water on his back while Pidge tries to score pebbles into his belly button, made visible by the wet cling of his shirt. The beach is just visible from where they sit on rock heated by the sun. Allura and Shiro are walking slowly where the water meets coarse sand. Allura suddenly crouches to pick up a stone, which she sends skipping over the surface of the water. Up by the road, Lance can see the bumper of the bus, obscured by dangling willow branches.

 

“I need a name,” says Lance suddenly.

 

Pidge groans when one of her stones trampolines off Hunk’s stomach. Keith glances at Lance before leaning forward to follow his gaze. “For the bus?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Where’d you get it?”

 

“My sister. She kind of runs in the family. The bus, I mean. My dad bought her first, gave it to my brother, then sister, and now it’s me.”

 

“Huh.” Keith swishes his feet idly in the water. “Did they have names for it?”

 

“My dad called her Delfia,” says Lance as his feet mimic the tug and push of Keith’s, “Delfín is dolphin in Spanish, by the way.”

 

“I’m practically fluent,” drawls Keith.

 

“Hey, I said I’d teach you,” snorts Lance, aiming an underwater kick at Keith’s shins. The water slows him, and the attempt is dodged when Keith lifts his legs to hover parallel over the surface. “Anyway, my brother named her Rockatansky, or Roxie, and my sister called her Fluffy.”

 

“Fluffy?”

 

“Fluffy.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“So,” says Lance, voice uneven with laughter, “It’s my turn. I was just going to keep calling her Fluffy, but that doesn’t feel right anymore.”

 

“Rustbucket,” suggests Keith at once.

 

“Vetoed,” deadpans Lance, “Anything else?”

 

Keith chortles as he lowers his feet back into the water. “I think you’re asking the wrong person. I mean, I named my bike Red. ‘Cause, y’know, it’s red. So I’d probably say, name it Blue.”

 

“Wow, classy.”

 

“I mean, think of it this way,” says Keith, shooting Lance a grin, “It isn’t as elegant as Delfia, as badass as Rockatansky, or ironic like Fluffy, but Blue has its own charm. Straightforward and friendly, like you.”

 

Lance laughs first, and his brain processes the compliment second. As soon as it does, he feels his entire being heat up, as if only then did he realize the sun was baking him.

 

Until Keith adds, “When you’re not trying to shove Lady Gaga down my throat, anyway.”

 

“Hey!” protests Lance, the giddy feeling only swelling, “I’m  _ opening your eyes _ . Don’t pretend like you don’t appreciate it. Earlier, you even put on–”

 

“I’m not admitting to anything,” says Keith, “Now I gave you my suggestion. Pidge?”

 

“Stardestroyer,” she says, apparently having listened in while nailing two pebbles consecutively into Hunk’s belly button, “ _ Score!  _ Hey! Don’t take them out–! Nooo…”

 

Hunk snorts as he flicks the intruders out of the dip in his shirt. “I think Blue is a good name.”

 

Keith cocks an eyebrow at Lance. “See?”

 

“Okay, but Stardestroyer,” repeats Pidge.

 

“Stardestroyer is tempting,” muses Lance, but he also can’t deny that there  _ is _ something friendly about just…  _ Blue. _

 

Blue like the sky. Blue like the ocean. Blue like the eyes of his brother and mother, and the bus that faithfully took him through mountains and forests and plains, to the edge of a lake on the side of a highway. 

 

* * *

 

Lance wakes up in the back of the bus, leaning against a soft mound. It takes him a moment to remember exactly where he is – the bump and sway of the vehicle turning over the curb of a parking lot helps. The sun is still out, but sinking fast, and it’s warm against Lance’s face. When he turns his head, nose inhaling the familiar smell of the detergent his mom uses, he sees a blue knit sweater, an old, well-loved hoodie, a pale cotton shawl, and a mess of black hair leaning into it all. Lance blinks several times at Keith’s sleeping face. Slowly but surely, the memory returns to him; climbing into the back seat with Keith, the steady hum of the engine lulling him, and a sleepy attempt at building a nest that inevitably included bundling Keith up. He tries in vain to subdue the unnecessary flutter in his belly, but the deep, peaceful breathing and cheek pillowed against the sweater pile isn’t doing him any favours. 

 

He finds himself gazing for too long, and turns away just as they come to a stop. From the front seat, Pidge stretches her arms and flattens her hands against the ceiling. Allura is straightening herself from a position that suspiciously looks as though she may have been leaning against Shiro – not that Lance is in any position to judge. Hunk turns in his seat to flash them all a smile.

 

“Good napping? I thought it’d be best if we stopped here.”

 

Lance peers out the window to get a look at where they are. They’ve definitely reached Pittsburgh, by the size of the road they’d turned off and the number of cars whipping through the intersection. There’s no need for stopping at a motel either, when the city is full of tall hotels like the one they are currently parked in the shadow of. 

 

“Looks brilliant,” says Lance as they all pile out. A few nudges to Keith are required to wake him up enough to lurch out of the bus.

 

They take their time stretching; Hunk defaults to some yoga poses that Lance follows, and shortly after so too do Pidge and Keith. When they no longer feel like they’re made of crumbling cement, they walk into the lobby of the hotel. Off to one side is a restaurant, and Lance’s stomach grumbles at him irritably. 

 

“D’you guys want to eat there tonight?” suggests Lance once they have room keys in hand.

 

“A three course meal? Sign me up,” groans Hunk to a chorus of agreement from the rest of the squad.

 

Once their overnight bags are stashed safely within their rooms, and their sodden clothes are hung up to dry, they meet once more in the lobby to enter the restaurant. A waiter sits them down in a corner with a shitty view of the road outside on one end, and a television screen showing the current football match on the other. Despite Lance’s disinterest in football, he finds himself as engrossed in it as Pidge and Hunk are. By the time their appetizers come and go, Pidge is hissing as her preferred team gives up precious yardage, while Hunk pumps his arm so hard the table shakes.

 

Shiro is the one to draw them out of the sports-induced bubble. Lance thinks he might regret it when the conversation devolves into Pidge sniping croutons from his plate, and Hunk guessing Lance’s lock pattern until it shuts him out for five minutes, and Keith falling into Lance’s trap of seeing who can finish their soda the fastest (Keith wins when an ice cube smacks into Lance’s front teeth, putting him out of commission for a precious few seconds). Allura treats the place like it’s fine dining, but Lance spies her stealing a few cuts of Shiro’s chicken when he’s too distracted fending off Pidge. 

 

It’s as they’re polishing their plates that Lance realizes how familiar they’ve become, as odd as it seems. He remembers just a few days ago pulling over to pick up Hunk, once just a hefty guy with an uncertain grin, who became someone more – a man with a shadow over his head, a frayed and uneasy sense of self esteem, but kindness in every word and skilled fingers with a keen mind, who hates creepy things and gets motion sickness if he eats in the car, who works detail and pride into everything he does. Hunk isn’t just some nameless hitchhiker anymore, and as Lance looks around the table, he sees things in everyone else, too. 

 

The pinch in Allura’s brow when she glances at her phone, and the softness when she looks at the rest of them, the threaded bracelet tight on her wrist; the quick way in which Pidge cuts and scoops her food, as elaborate and efficient as when she creates something out of nothing, whether it’s a radio or a beaded Digimon; the awkward shift of Shiro’s prosthetic, but the way he no longer uses his other hand to pull it closer to himself, and the wry grin that he’s quicker to quirk at them; the blunt edges of Keith’s retorts, and his eyes, dark and watchful, the hesitation and uncertainty a ghost of a memory when they crinkle with every laugh.

 

At some point along the way, they’ve come to fill a part of his life – and he figures he might be kind of addicted to the companionship.

 

“This is our last night together,” begins Lance, fiddling with the napkin before smoothing it against the tablecloth, “I was thinking, since we got in early, why not go out and do something?”

 

“We just had dinner,” points out Pidge.

 

“I mean like, something…” Lance gestures vaguely, trying to catch the words flitting about his head.

 

“Exciting?” suggests Keith.

 

“Exactly. Exciting. Fun, like –” Lance breaks off. He blinks once, twice, then says with a developing smile, “A club. We should go to a club downtown.”

 

Allura claps her hands together immediately. “I’m for it.”

 

Lance beams at her. The instant support lights his enthusiasm into something fierce. He turns to look at the others, eyebrows soaring into his hairline. He holds them there for an extended period of time, pretending he doesn’t notice Hunk eyeing the quiver of his brow with some sort of amused concern. 

 

Shiro buckles first. “Pidge is underage–”

 

“I have a fake ID,” says Pidge.

 

“Well then I’m in,” drawls Keith.

 

Lance drops his brows with some relief. “You have a what?”

 

“Fake ID.”

 

“...I forgot you were a baby.”

 

“I’ll take that… as a compliment.”

 

Hunk scratches at his jaw. “Well. I’m not one for clubbing but, if you’re all going…”

 

“Everyone said they’re going,” starts Lance, but he’s interrupted by Pidge saying, “I didn’t.”

 

Lance stares at her. She grins. “But I’m in.”

 

“Why must you–? Nevermind,” sighs Lance. He fixates his gaze on Hunk. “It’ll be fun going together, I know a good club. Decent music, good drinks, slightly less pricey than everywhere else ‘cause it’s popular.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” says Shiro, but Allura extends a hand and lays it on his arm in the same moment as the waiter arrives to dish out receipts. He blinks at her, and Lance sees an opportunity in the draining of his objection. 

 

“You don’t have to go,” says Lance, folding his receipt into a fan, “But it’d be cool if we did one last thing together. I mean, I want to end the night on a high note.”

 

Shiro glances briefly at Allura – an obvious tell – before casting his gaze down at his false fingers. Then he nods with a rueful grin. “Alright, I’m in.”

 

“ _ Yes,” _ crows Lance, far too loud for the ambience of the restaurant, and then he’s shouting, “Dibs on first shower!” as he launches himself to reach the cash register first, Hunk laughing something about double showers from behind him.

 

* * *

 

It’s as he’s stepping out of the shower, hair a mess and towel sliding persistently down his hips, that Lance recalls the promise he made to his sister. Anxiety is an instant enemy, pricking his gut with cold claws. Hunk, sprawled on the bed with his phone in hand, takes one look at him and sits up. 

 

“You okay?”

 

“I have to call my grandparents,” replies Lance monotonously. 

 

Hunk blinks at him then grimaces. “Your uh, sister might’ve texted you while you were in the shower.” Lance stares at him and he lifts his hands defensively. “It kept buzzing so I checked to make sure it wasn’t an emergency!”

 

“I’m so fucked,” sighs Lance as he crosses the room to where his phone is sitting on the nightstand, plugged into the wall. Sure enough, he’s got more text messages from his sister than fingers. “Shit, I gotta– Sorry, Hunk, could you, uh, give me like, twenty minutes or something?”

 

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” says Hunk, unhooking his phone and shuffling to the door.

 

Once it’s closed and the lock beeps, Lance allows his face to twist. He presses his lips in a thin line. They already feel dry – drier than they should be. Cursing himself quietly, he one-handedly applies chapstick and moisturizer, using the other to summon his mother’s contact information and call her. As always, she picks up just when Lance expects to go through to voicemail.

 

“Lance!” she says by way of greeting, “I was wondering whether you’d call.”

 

“Yeah, sorry,” grimaces Lance, hoping his expression isn’t heard through his voice, “We made it to Pittsburgh.”

 

“We?”

 

Ice gathers in the pit of Lance’s stomach. “Me and the bus,” he amends quickly, “She’s a sturdy one. Not a single flat tire, and the engine light stayed off!”

 

His mother chuckles. “Good, I don’t want my boy on the side of the road. Who knows what sort of weirdoes might stop by?”

 

“Yeah,” laughs Lance, as if he isn’t sharing a hotel room with one of five hitchhikers he picked up off the side of the road, “That’d be scary.”

 

“Can you talk to your grandparents tonight?”

 

It’s worded as an option, but Lance knows otherwise. He tilts his phone away from his face so his long inhale isn’t audible. “For sure. Put ‘em on. Thanks, mamá.”

 

He wishes he had time to prepare. He wishes he didn’t forget about it and spend the day musing about everything but. Lance wishes for a lot of things, as his abuela greets him warmly in Spanish and his abuelo does the same, putting the phone on speaker. 

 

Because as soon as the greetings are done, the interview begins.

 

“Are you excited for school?”

 

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to my new classes.” A cookie cutter answer.

 

“I hope you remember to feed yourself properly without your parents to make your meals for you.”

 

“Of course, abuela, I make a lot and freeze some for later.” Or at least, he manages to do that maybe twice a semester.

 

“After all, how can you study properly without a good meal in you?”

 

“Of course, abuela.” Ramen and coffee.

 

“You need to keep up those grades.”

 

And that’s when the moisture in Lance’s mouth begins to vanish.

 

“Yes, abuela.”

 

“Remember to talk to your upperclassmen. You do know some people, right?”

 

“I, uh, know my TAs.”

 

“See if you can get some pointers from them. Always talk to them about every mark they take off – you may get a better grade afterwards!”

 

He tries to imagine going up to one of his TAs from the previous semester. The guy was all sharp edges and tired retorts – the first and last time Lance ever asked for a regrade. 

 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” says Lance awkwardly.

 

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

 

“Um, no.”

 

“When are you going to get one?”

 

He swallows hard, words tripping over his tongue. “I dun– I don’t know.”

 

“Well, when you do, you’re going to have to work harder maintaining your grades.”

 

Maybe on any other day, Lance would be fascinated by how his grandparents manage to make dating sound like a chore, draining time from more worthy ventures. He simply smiles, however, despite his face being an obscure image in their mind’s eye. 

 

“Maybe I won’t date until after exams,” he says, as if he hasn’t spent a hefty chunk of his free time flirting and casually dating since his first day in New York. 

 

“Nonsense! You need to bring a girl home!”

 

“Does it have to be a girl?”

 

The instant response is missing. A gap of silence. Lance realizes what he just said, and turns his gaze to the ceiling.  _ Fix it _ , he screams inside his own head,  _ fix it, please, hurry up, say something, fix this – _

 

“I mean,” says Lance, hating how his voice sounds resigned, doesn’t even tremble with the fear in the pit of his stomach, “Can’t I bring home a friend over break? If I don’t have a girlfriend?”

 

There’s a muffled sound of air swooshing over the receiver. His grandmother exhaling through her nose, as she is prone to do when someone gives up fighting their point. It’s not a victorious sound, but it’s one that let’s Lance know he’s lost, whatever it was that he was able to lose. 

 

“I’m sure your mamá would prefer to see you with a girlfriend,” says his abuela, “But if you have a friend that doesn’t have a place to go for the holidays, then by all means, you mustn’t leave them alone!”

 

Lance grimaces his smile. “Thank you, abuela.”

 

“We’re going to go now and let you sleep. Let us know when you get in safely.”

 

“Yes, abuela. Good night.”

 

“Good night, and study hard.”

 

A rustle, his abuelo murmuring about which button to press, and then the line goes dead. Lance lets his hand drop to the bed. His phone bounces off his palm to flip face-up on the mattress. She wants what’s best for him, he knows that, and yet every word was the brush of nails over the sensitive skin of his palm, bristling and irritable, only growing worse as time went on. 

 

It’s a sad thing, Lance thinks, when he can’t stand talking to someone he loves dearly.

 

* * *

 

Lance is perched on the roof of the bus – Blue, he thinks, it really is a suitably simple name – when Allura finds him. He’s surprised she’s ready so soon, when her hair is up and braided and her makeup is as dazzling as the smile Lance finds himself automatically reciprocating. It really is impossible to face her directly. 

 

“Hunk did my hair for me,” she says as she walks up, framing the woven locks with proud hands, “I’m afraid I set him back in his prep time, however.”

 

“At least we won’t be the ones teased for holding the rest up,” grins Lance.

 

“Oh, that’s true.” Allura steps up onto Blue’s bumper and hauls herself up to sit beside Lance. “How are you doing?”

 

“Hm?” Lance blinks at her in confusion.

 

Allura smiles, a kind thing that tempts a blush out of Lance. “Hunk told me you had a conversation with your grandparents.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“He said it sounded… rough.”

 

“Oh,” repeats Lance, feeling for the first time a flash of irritation at Hunk. It’s gone almost immediately, a passing fancy that he can even  _ attempt _ to retain some negative emotion about Hunk. He did kick the poor guy out of the room – Lance can’t blame him for eavesdropping. “Yeah. It was… to be expected.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Lance swallows a scoff. “Nah, it’s nothing serious.”

 

“You sound like me.”

 

“What?”

 

Allura laughs at his expression. “It’s something I do, no matter how aware of it I am. There’s so much going on in my life, negative as much as positive, that I’ll make light of anything that can be fixed with talking. After all, if I can confide my way out of it, how serious can it really be?”

 

“Oh.” Lance looks down at his knees, hiked up by heels leaning against the windshield. “Is your, um, godfather still giving you a hard time?”

 

“Certainly.” Allura is still smiling when Lance turns his gaze back on her. “I know I deserve it, though.” 

 

Lance nods slowly, eyes following the line of a neat braid before dropping back down to his knees. Allura makes a soft noise through her nose, almost like a huff.

 

“Do you think you deserve your grandparents talking to you like that?” she asks quietly.

 

Lance replies by drawing his legs up to his chest. Despite the non-answer, Allura seems to accept it. There’s the muffled sound of a door being slammed within the hotel; voices, trading words punctuated by laughter, the context a missing piece Lance doesn’t bother straining to hear. Allura shifts beside him, and the protests of Blue’s roof quiet when she stops. 

 

“Do you think,” she begins, voice soft and – for the first time since Lance has known her – uncertain, “Do you think Shiro is a good man?”

 

It’s a loaded question. Lance turns his head to lean his cheek against his knees, scrutinizing the woman beside him as much as he is considering the question. Allura doesn’t meet his gaze; idle fingers push at immaculate cuticles, rubbing soft fingertips together and running the blunt edge of a manicured nail over knuckles. It doesn’t take him long to come up with an answer – not when he wishes to express himself honestly. 

 

“He’s solid,” says Lance, “Reliable. The kind of guy you go to first when you know you’re about to start sobbing, even if you don’t want to talk about it. That’s the kind of vibe I get from him. He’s easy to read, if you pay attention, and honest. Shiro’s… he’s the kind of adult I want to be, y’know? Mature and  _ good _ , even after... everything he must’ve been through.”

 

Allura’s smile grows with every word, until Lance has to look away lest he be dazzled. 

 

“I thought so, too,” says Allura, soft and happy. 

 

“But, uh, why are you asking me?” He’s known them for four days and he knows Pidge is honest to a fault, that Hunk is the type to inflate the positive qualities of the people he likes, and Keith – despite his shyness and tendency to avoid – well, he clearly adores Shiro, and that alone is enough in Lance’s book to trust the guy. 

 

But instead, Allura asked Lance – and she’s looking at him now, brow on its way to furrowing but not quite. “I asked you because I think you get a good read on people. You pay attention to them.”

 

The answer is a little disappointing. Lance snorts and admits, “Probably because I’m so worried about how I come across to other people, yeah? I’m paying  _ too much _ attention to them.”

 

“That’s not necessarily a  _ bad _ thing.” The first lock of hair to escape does so then, making a bid for freedom and caught by Allura’s fingers. She tucks it delicately back into its braid. “You’re a good person not because of how you fight to portray yourself a certain way, but because you genuinely care about other people. At least, that’s what I’ve noticed about you.”

 

“Oh,” breathes Lance. That’s a far more intuitive answer. He wants to accept it, he really does –

 

“Don’t bother arguing with me,” she says breezily, leaning back on one hand but jolting up when the roof groans. “Oops.”

 

Lance blinks at her, then the roof, and laughs. He allows his legs to follow the curve of the windshield. “Right. I won’t, but–”

 

“No buts,” interrupts Allura immediately, “You’ve been far too kind to a bunch of strangers you picked up off the side of the road.”

 

It’s with a smile that Lance says, “I’m glad I did.”

 

* * *

 

They take two taxis downtown and Lance is pretty sure their driver is ready to boot them out halfway when Pidge and Keith get into a heated argument about space travel. Ultimately they drag Lance into the debate when he accidentally lets slip that he knows a light year is six trillion miles.

 

Pidge and Keith continue their discussion as they leave the taxi, slapping fivers into Lance’s hands as he pays the driver. It’s with a quick apology that he bails after his companions. The other three are already there in the back of the line slowly shuffling into the club. Allura looks excited, her beaming smile barely affected when she’s nudged by someone trying to reach their friends ahead of them. Hunk, busily kneading his hands, doesn’t notice their group is complete until Lance claps a hand onto his shoulder.

 

“Alright, crew,” says Lance, garnering their attention, “Half of us are underage, so the rest of you are gonna have to hook us up with some drinks, right?”

 

Shiro’s eyebrows start to rise at Lance’s presumption, but Allura nods readily, “Of course!”

 

“Allura, we can’t do that in good conscience,” begins Shiro.

 

She waves off his concerns, casting him a knowing smile. “They’re legal in nearly every country but this one, why not? Except Pidge, of course.”

 

“But I’m not hot on getting drunk so,” shrugs Pidge.

 

“What if we get caught?” asks Hunk nervously.

 

“Don’t get caught, don’t gotta worry about it.” Lance beams, Hunk doesn’t look reassured, but everyone sans Shiro takes it in stride. “Pidge, about your ID…”

 

“It says I’m nineteen, it’s not that big of a stretch.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

They’re coming up on the bouncer now, and they all take out their IDs. Hunk goes first, receiving a stamp to his hand. Keith and Lance are next, of the misfortune to be underage and unable to get a stamp identifying them as legal to drink. Lance is arguing with Hunk over what the stamp is – “It’s a dolphin, Hunk, what part of that isn’t a fin?” – when the bouncer studies Pidge’s card. His eyebrows raise slightly, gaze flicking from the card to the girl, who looks utterly unperturbed by the scrutinization. He glances at the trio waiting for her just inside the doorway, then seems to accept the ID and gives it back to usher her inside. Lance saves his high five for when they’re past the second set of doors and the coat check, and Shiro and Allura have joined them. 

 

“Infiltration, success,” declares Lance, raising his voice as the music hits in pulsing bass and unrecognizable lyrics. 

 

Maybe they respond, but it’s difficult to tell when the rhythm of the club is conducting every beat of his heart. Despite not having a drop of alcohol, Lance is already feeling the swoop in his belly and his head. The atmosphere is all it takes, and he readily feeds off of it, grabbing Hunk and dragging him to the bar for their first order. The bartender seems skeptical of Hunk, even with Lance hiding off in the crowd, but in the end a pair of drinks are bought. Allura and Shiro do much better, with all the grace and confidence of people who have purchased many drinks on their own.

 

“You’ve got a long way to go before you’re a proper adult,” teases Lance as Allura hands Pidge a vibrant pink something or other and Shiro allows Keith to taste both beers before deciding. Hunk just sniffs and takes a big gulp of the mojito before passing it off to Lance, who accepts it with protests and gratitude in equal measure. 

 

The song changes and Lance finds himself drifting towards the dancefloor. It’s a slow and steady motion, drawing the rest of the group with him. They stay together for awhile longer, passing around drinks to try, ordering new ones and feeling the rush of warm and giddiness that comes with it. Eventually, Allura and Pidge go off to make the first bathroom run of the night, and by the time they  _ should _ be back, Lance is the equivalent of four drinks in, the contents of his stomach a veritable bowl of jungle juice. 

 

With a beer in hand that he sneakily traded with Hunk for, Lance finds himself alone and at the edge of the crowd pulsing and churning with the music. He inhales slowly, and as he’s savouring the ethereal quality of the club when he makes eye contact with her. She’s beautiful, he decides easily, her skin glittering and her eyes hooded. She doesn’t break eye contact as her dark lips purse into a sly smile. Lance feels a tug in his legs – to go, to dance, to slide his hands around her waist and feel her body sway in time with his. 

 

He drains the last of the beer in one go, setting the bottle down on the first available surface he comes to. Then there’s a hand that definitely isn’t that sultry woman’s on his arm, its gentle grip sliding around his bicep. Lance doesn’t know why, but he shudders even before he turns to meet dark, fathomless eyes framed by short lashes. 

 

“ _ Jesus _ ,” he breathes, only realizing he said it out loud when Keith laughs.

 

“Sorry, I lost the others and I didn’t want to lose you, too,” he says, the flash of his teeth as bright as the flash of lights. 

 

“Oh,” hums Lance. His hands drift to brush Keith’s elbows – keeping him there, keeping himself there. “I want to dance.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Lance nods. “Yeah. Do you?”

 

_ One right answer _ , he thinks, and this time he’s pretty sure he doesn’t say it out loud. Keith’s arms dip down until Lance’s hands cup them. It feels like an invitation.

 

“Honestly?” says Keith, eyes glowing and sparking and doing all sorts of things that Lance doesn’t expect them to, “If it’s with you, Lance, I think I could do anything.”

 

And the words are hot and cold, soft and rough, and Lance’s hands slide up to frame Keith’s face between them with a gentle reverence that doesn’t suit the atmosphere of the club – or the sheer excitement he feels growing in his stomach. 

 

“You’re more reckless than I am,” says Lance, their noses an inch apart.

 

“You invited five strangers into your car,” points out Keith.

 

Lance watches the slow bob of his eyelids. “And you trust me.”

 

“I do,” breathes Keith, “It’s stupid, but I do.”

 

“Then let’s dance,” says Lance, and his hands meet Keith’s as he backs up onto the dancefloor.

 

The crowd accepts them with a multifaceted embrace, disjointed as an earthquake, fluid as a landslide. They’re jostled into a niche of their own among bodies too absorbed in the music to pay attention to the extension of their own limbs. Keith’s expression drops quickly as the muggy heat of the throng presses in on them, but Lance is there, fingertips drawing reassuring lines up and down his wrist. It doesn’t matter what song is playing – Lance feels the beat in his body and sways to it, leading Keith into the motion. Lance can tell the other man isn’t comfortable yet, settling into an awkward stance, but the crowd ebbs and flows and Lance moves them with it. He keeps their feet moving, turning their blind navigation of the dancefloor into a dance of its own – feet stepping, arms swinging, hips cocking – until it isn’t an uncertain pucker to Keith’s lips, but a relaxed grin. 

 

By the time the third song begins, Keith is well and truly  _ dancing _ , and Lance feels the pride swell in his chest. They swing to and fro from each other, hands intertwined in one moment and the gaps between fingers empty in the next, before they’re meeting once more. They find Allura amidst a group of strangers, her braids coming loose and the languid movement of her body enthralling everyone within a five food radius. She joins them in their dance, beaming, and Lance can barely recall what her face looks like without that open smile. Then she’s breathlessly calling for Shiro, her gaze finding him through the masses, and she’s pulling him into an embrace that Lance misses between the swell of the crowd. 

 

They spin their way out of the crowd when the beat becomes too much, too deep, for their breath to catch up to. Lance still feels the need to follow the music, but he channels it into every step he takes. Keith bumps into him more than once, they laugh about it, and find a section of the bar to lean against when their human support fails. Further down, Lance spots Hunk accepting two tumblers. He can’t be sure in the unnatural flashing lights, but even without seeing the red in his face, Lance reads Hunk’s intoxication in his grin and the slosh of liquid over the rim of glasses. Lance hooks his arm through Keith’s and drags him over to follow Hunk to a standing table. Pidge accepts one of the glasses from Hunk before she sees the two approach the table. 

 

She beams at them, a dangerous thing telling of her own inebriation. “Hey!”

 

“Hey!” parrots Lance. Hunk is gone again, a ghost in the club.

 

“Did you see Allura dancing?” 

 

Lance practically swoons. “Fuck yes.”

 

“She’s a goddess,” declares Pidge, gulping more liquid than she should and coughing. “Shit.”

 

“Shiro was dancing, too,” says Keith, voice straining over the music.

 

“Fuckin’ –  _ where?” _

 

Lance laughs. “Allura caught him. Who knows where they’re at now.”

 

“Not the bathroom,” sniffs Pidge, “They’re far too classy to pork on the shitter.”

 

“Pidge!” splutters Lance.

 

“You never know,” says Keith seriously, leaning over the table to add in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, “Shiro’s already done it in his youth, who’s to say he won’t do it again?”

 

“He  _ what?” _ squawks Pidge. Keith is too slow to dodge her lunge, and his collar is gripped in small, steel fists. “Tell me everything.”

 

“His youth,” snorts Lance while Pidge gives Keith a shake.

 

“Ask him –  _ hic _ – yourself!” 

 

“No! Tell em! Me – tell me!”

 

“I can’t! It isn’t my story!”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Keith –”

 

“Please calm down, Pidge,” says Hunk, carefully lowering an assortment of shotglasses onto the table. 

 

At the sight of new alcohol – one dark, another clear, and two others either blue or green, it was difficult to tell – Pidge releases Keith’s shirt and goes for one of the coloured shots. Its contents vanish down her throat before Hunk can explain which each one is.

 

“Pure sugar,” says Pidge with a shudder.

 

Hunk shoots her a disappointed frown. “It was called a Kick in the Crotch.”

 

“Suits me.”

 

“What are these?” asks Lance, squinting at the other coloured one to try and discern exactly what hue it is. 

 

“Um, this one is Alien Piss –”

 

“Mine.” Lance grabs it without preamble and knocks it back despite Hunk’s spluttering.

 

“You guys are monsters!” complains Hunk, giving up and sliding the clear whatever to Keith.

 

His mouth tastes like sour sugar and a fuzzy kind of burn, but considering the name, Lance finds it rather good. He beams at Hunk, accepting a high five from Pidge. “Love you, buddy!”

 

Keith and Hunk clink their glasses together before drinking their shots. One moment Lance is watching them with a grin, and then the next he’s looking at Pidge and the sudden appearance of a man beside her. Lance blinks rapidly, seriously wondering whether he just forgot the face – not to mention  _ name _ – of one of his hitchhikers. Then Pidge is frowning in confusion at the hand on her opposite shoulder as the man leans in towards her.

 

He only gets out one word – “ _ Hey”  _ – before Keith’s glass is meeting the table and he starts forward. Lance grabs him instinctually, yanking him back by the crook of his elbow, but his gaze is fixated on the stranger. 

 

Pidge wrinkles her nose, leaning away from the man. “Hi, excuse me, can you maybe not have your arm on me?”

 

The man laughs. “C’mon, chill. We’re all friends, right?”

 

“No?” says Hunk, looking honestly perplexed. 

 

“But we  _ could be _ –” and Lance has heard enough, the back of his neck prickling with distaste.

 

“How about  _ no thank you _ ,” says Pidge with a laugh that could cut glass, “We’re not here to make friends, we’re here to have fun with those we have. Bye.” The man doesn’t move, looking down at her with a cocked eyebrow. Pidge’s smile is icy as she repeats, more forcefully, “ _ Bye.” _

 

Yet he doesn’t move. The smile is sliding from Pidge’s face, and Lance releases Keith’s arm. Their uninvited guest seems to be too drunk to catch on to the danger until Keith’s hand is squeezing his finger joints together. With barely an  _ ow _ , the man is thrust away into the unfortunate back of another girl, who swears something awful before moving away. 

 

“She said no,” says Keith, and Lance can’t see his expression, but the chills he feels are real. 

 

Unfortunately, the man seems ready for a fight. He straightens up, scowling, eyes unfocused as he takes a step forward. Before Keith can raise his clenched fist, Pidge slides between them. The music is too loud for Lance to clearly hear what Pidge says, but whatever it is, the man visibly pales under the pulsing multicoloured light. He casts one last sour look at them all before melting into the crowd at his back. 

 

Expression dangerously dark, Pidge turns back to the table. “Fucker,” she spits.

 

Lance looks from the thunderclouds settling on her brow, to the tension refusing to ease from Keith fists. “Let’s go outside for a breather,” he suggests, “Calm down a bit. Hunk?”

 

“I’m going to go look for Shiro and Allura,” says Hunk, looking down at his glass and reluctantly picking it up. “I’ll find you guys later.”

 

“Alright, see you.” Lance motions at Keith and Pidge to walk ahead of him, steering them towards the outskirts of the club. There’s just as many people, but they’re more spread out, giving them room to walk. A few are lingering by the doors to the back porch, digging in purses and pockets for cigarettes and cellphones.

 

Pidge thrusts the doors open ahead of them, nearly clocking another club-goer who lingered too close. The cool evening air blasts Lance in the face. The sweat on his skin goes from an uncomfortable and moist outer layer to the equivalent of a fine misting during a hot day. Beside Lance, Keith makes a relieved noise that Lance can relate to. The three of them find a spot amidst the smokers and those just breathing the fresh air to lean against a railing. Beyond the patio, the roads are glittering with a rainfall that they missed inside. It’s beautiful, and it gives Lance’s eyes something to flick between when they fail to focus. He didn’t realize just how intoxicated he is inside, but now, with the night air cooling the sweat on his face and neck, he can feel his mind swimming. 

 

Pidge and Keith seem to be feeling similarly, also leaning against the rail, Pidge with her cheek pressed against it and Keith dragging his finger through water droplets. A car comes to a stop at the intersection, the red glow offset by its green contender. Lance can hear the laughter from the car, the edges of the sound rounder instead of rough, softened by the evening rain. 

 

The railing shifts as Pidge does, now resting her forehead against the cool, wet metal. Her voice is soft as she exhales, “I wasn’t going to drink. I mean. I wasn’t going to drunk. Get drunk. ‘Cause you’re strangers, right? ‘N people don’t get drunk with strangers but–” She breaks off to hiccup, chuckles at the sound and continues, “But you’re not strangers, you’re my  _ friends _ , and I trust you guys way more than I should.” Another hiccup. “Fuck.”

 

The admission warms Lance in a way that is completely different than the alcohol’s effect, utterly distinct despite the unnatural heat already in his limbs. There’s no awkward gut churning, head spinning, light strobing, eyes pulsing that comes with a shot and a laugh and a twirl on the dance floor. 

 

“I think the same,” says Lance, swaying gently where he stands, “You’re my friends.”

 

Keith doesn’t use words, but there’s the sound of Pidge’s grunting as he ruffles her hair, and despite the lack of evidence, Lance knows there’s a smile on Keith’s face. The door to the club opens and closes, the music spilling out of it along with an exchange of patrons, in and out. Lance closes his eyes against the multicoloured lights, but his head swims dangerously until he opens them again. He forces them to focus, but all the sharp specks swell into circles before him, so he puts aside his meager attempts. 

 

Another hiccup, and Pidge says, “I’m always – afraid, y’know? That – that new people in my life will… judge me, I guess. ‘Cause of, y’know. Being me. There’s a lot to judge.”

 

“For being way too smart?” asks Lance.

 

“For liking Digimon over Pokémon?” provides Keith, to which Lance can’t help but laugh.

 

Pidge snorts at that, too, and she lifts her head from the railing to slide her hand underneath it. “Only the first is a valid point, but I also – I mean, if I–I just say nothing then there’s nothing to judge, right? About – about being ace.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I kind of expected my mom to say she didn’t get it,” says Pidge to her feet, “But I thought people my own age would catch on faster – or even if they didn’t understand, they could accept it. Yet everyone says I haven’t met the right person yet. I’m too young. I haven’t experienced enough. I’m holding myself back – that I’m afraid, and convincing myself there’s nothing there. That I’m faking it, trying to be special, trying to be different, as if I’m not already. As if this entire planet isn’t made up of people being different.”

 

The music blasts again, notes trembling on the verge of a drop. The group of women that come outside slide past the trio at the rails, laughing and speaking half in some unfamiliar language. As the moment extends, Lance thinks Pidge is either done, expecting a reply or maybe fell asleep – but then she straightens up, crossing her arms on the section of metal that she’s wiped dry. Like Lance, she looks at the trading of green to yellow to red at the intersection. 

 

“Even Matt didn’t believe me at first,” she continues, “He was confused, but he accepted after I sat him down and explained. He might not  _ understand _ , but he accepts it as a part of me. I think… he actually accepted it better than I did, for awhile. I thought there was definitely something broken, or that I was mistranslating my own emotions, and I convinced myself, y’know, that I was feeling the things everyone was telling me to look for.” Pidge pauses to laugh, incredulity aimed at herself. “I actually convinced myself that I was in love with one of my friends. I thought, this is it, this is what everyone was talking about, right? But it wasn’t! Not even  _ close _ . I realized that after a couple months. I love him, sure, but it’s not romantic, and it never has been. Which is fine. I’m fine.”

 

Another pause, and Lance slides his gaze down to witness the smile that spreads across Pidge’s face as she repeats, “I’m fine.”

 

Lance feels the overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around the young girl, as if that might erase any lingering critical thoughts, but he holds back and channels the fondness into the beaming smile he finds himself wearing. Pidge leans back from the rail, fingers wrapped tight around the metal. She looks at Lance and snorts a laugh at his expression.

 

“Y’know, Pidge,” says Lance, as serious as he can manage with his cheeks hurting and a giddy feeling joining the warmth of alcohol in his belly, “If someone else gives you shit for being you, ever, even if it’s just a passing remark or an ignorant one or  _ whatever _ , I swear to god – and you don’t even have to remind me when I’m sober –”

 

“Get to the point!” prompts Pidge.

 

“We’ll punch them in the face,” says Keith first.

 

Pidge cracks up; Lance stares over her head at Keith, who meets his gaze with a grin and a cock of his eyebrow that begs him to say otherwise – but Lance can’t argue, because the other man stole the words right out of his mouth.

 

“Exactly that,” admits Lance, the  _ we _ not escaping his notice, “If someone gives you shit, tell us, and there will be fists in faces.”

 

After a brief moment wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Pidge’s arms are snaking their way around the waists of either man beside her. She tugs them close, Lance nearly bonking his head off Keith’s when Pidge tightens her hold. It’s a quick embrace, with a firm grip on Lance’s shirt that does weird things to the feelings bouncing from belly to chest to throat and back again. The swell of fond and protective feelings doesn’t leave when Pidge relinquishes her hold, or when she slaps Lance and Keith on the shoulder and her eyes crinkle with her laughter, or when she’s too slow to catch the tear that rolls down the side of her nose. 

 

And when she says, “Thank you, I couldn’t have made better friends if I tried”, those feelings are no longer a swell but a surge. It’s only when Pidge excuses herself to dive back into the melee of the club that Lance can step back from the edge, settle, and note that despite the minimal time spent together, the quirks that grind his gears, and the fanciful circumstances – well, if it’s Pidge, Lance thinks he might have just gained an honorary sister. 

 

He turns and faces the flickering glow of the intersection once more. Every breath feels different – sharper, maybe, or focused. Whatever it is, Lance is aware of his arms tucked closer to himself, his forearms cold against the wet rail, and the heat of Keith’s skin half an inch away from his own. 

 

“I’m glad we came here,” says Lance to the amber light.

 

“Me too,” says Keith to the red. 

 

“I don’t want to go back yet.”

 

“We don’t have to.”

 

Lance wants to point out that he didn’t mean the club, that instead he was referring to New York and the fact that once they pass the border, that will be it. One by one, they’ll all leave Blue, until Lance is by himself once more. 

 

It’s the knowledge that with tomorrow comes the end of a journey that has Lance suddenly wishing to profess his appreciation. He doesn’t know what to say, and weaving emotions using words has never been his strong suit. The lights change again. The doors to the club open and close once more. The music pounding inside is within his chest now. 

 

He doesn’t know what to say, but Lance thinks there  _ is _ another way to explain – to  _ share  _ – the strong jumble of feelings replacing his logic. 

 

It begins with a name – “Keith.” – and a nervous heat like another shot of tequila before Lance is leaning towards him. His intention was to brush his lips against Keith’s cheek – a simple thing in lieu of the words he can’t process – but he forgets that, generally speaking, when a name is called, the owner of said name will turn their head.

 

So it is with cold raindrops on the back of Lance’s hands, the flash of green to red, the sound of tires cleaving through puddles and the chatter of a dozen conversations around him, that Lance’s lips meet Keith’s. 

 

Even as his brain begs him to jerk back and vault over the railing and run away, far away, Lance’s body does the opposite. For the briefest of moments, he’s hyperaware of the way Keith’s mouth feels, unmoving in shock but soft, and then lips part and Lance tastes rum on his breath.

 

He wants nothing more than to swallow the alarm his body is sinking into and press forward, but instead Lance leans back until he’s breathing air that tastes like rain and not alcohol. He tries to pay attention to the cars speeding recklessly through the intersection, yet his eyes are pulled back to meet Keith’s – heavy lidded and dazed – and Lance feels the nervous warmth boil over and creep up his neck with molten fingers. He doesn’t realize he’s grinning until Keith is too. Mirth bubbles up Lance’s throat and there’s no need for words, since their laughter is weaving together just as well. 

 

When they turn to go inside, it’s because even with the alcohol in their veins and their arms pressed in a line from wrist to shoulder, the cold wins out. There’s a new comfort between them that Lance can feel when their fingers are threaded together, and with every smile they share, and especially when they’re dragged back onto the dance floor, there is no hesitation in hands and feet. They simply dance like fools, laughing the lyrics they know and making up the ones they don’t.

 

They lose track of time and don’t even realize they’re breathlessly enjoying the last song of the night until it’s over and the overhead lights turn on. Suddenly everyone is visible, their faces in sharp relief and the sweat and cocktail stains on shirts on display. Lance realizes how close he is to Keith amidst their dancing, but he can’t find the nervousness from earlier. Instead he just laughs as Keith pushes twists of hair off his sweaty forehead, until they’re found by Hunk and Pidge near the edge of the crowd.

 

Finding Allura and Shiro means waiting outside as the club empties, stomping in puddles and kicking water at each other as a fine drizzle starts up again, until the two adults are the ones to find them. Allura’s hair is loose and wispy around her braids, but she looks like a rockstar beside Shiro’s slightly less roughened appearance. Lance thinks there’s also a change in the air between them; they’re standing closer, Allura’s fingers lingering on the back of Shiro’s hand and smiles shared in lieu of words. For whatever reason, Lance feels proud.

 

Pidge somehow begs a piggyback ride off Hunk as Shiro tries to wave down a taxi amidst the horde of other club goers. “My ears feel funny,” she says as she clings, “Stuffed full of cotton.”

 

“Same,” croaks Hunk, “My voice is going to be  _ ruined _ in the morning.”

 

“Same,” chorus Lance and Keith, arms across each other’s shoulders.

 

“Did you see the girls on the bar?”

 

“ _ No _ ,” gasps Lance, “I should’ve been up there!”

 

“You would’ve fallen right off,” snorts Keith.

 

“My balance while drunk is impeccable, thanks.”

 

“I was up there for a bit,” says Pidge. Lance chokes on nothing.

 

Hunk starts to turn slowly on the spot. “I had to take her down.”

 

“I was rocking it!” 

 

“You nearly kicked the bee-tattoo girl right off!”

 

“Hm, fair.”

 

“I can’t believe,” heaves Lance, “Pidge was dancing on the bar and  _ I missed it _ .”

 

“That… makes me legitimately sad?” says Keith, as if it’s a question. He frowns down at the sidewalk. 

 

“Next time,” assures Pidge, “I’ll take you both up with me.”

 

A balloon swells inside Lance’s chest at those words.  _ Next time _ . “ _ Deal _ ,” he practically shouts, “Next time, we’re all dancing on the bar.”

 

Keith starts to protest, but Lance is having none of it, tightening his arm around his neck until their heads meet. Pidge’s cackles turn to groans as Hunk’s spinning speeds up. They’re forced to become functioning individuals when Allura returns and steers them towards the cabs Shiro managed to monopolize.

 

The ride back is cramped and hot, sweat and rain mingling, limbs folded and tangled. The flicker of streetlights and signs reflecting off the fingers of water streaking the window lulls Lance into a pseudo slumber. He hears Shiro conversing with the cabbie, but it’s muted. Keith is a hot presence to his left, Hunk a solid one on his right. There’s not enough space to be comfortable, yet Lance thinks he has nothing to complain about, because he’s happy.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THAT WAS REALLY LONG. 
> 
> honestly i think some of the worst arguments are the ones that aren't arguments at all, but a one-sided conversation while you wish you could say what you really want, but you can't. like you just say what they want to hear to make it end faster.
> 
> Anywhoodle, next chapter is the last!! HURRAH!!!


	5. Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i'm sorry this took so long but here it is_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> from the previous chapter, [the sweetest art i've ever seen by a-bichol](http://a-bichol.tumblr.com/post/161111323215/i-read-this-fic-andgoddamn-its-so-good-i-love)!!!!! do i still occasionally look at it and giggle??? yes. yes i do.
> 
> also, playlists for your listening pleasure: [the road is as endless as my love for you](http://8tracks.com/annie-g-74923/the-road-is-as-endless-as-my-love-for-you) by AnnSmith on 8tracks and [my writing playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/bitterbeetle/playlist/0gMNBbKDGzwhjlxqNLeSOK) for this particular fic on spotify!!

Lance wakes the next morning with a mouth like the seventh level of hell and a bladder splitting at the seams—but at least no headache. He counts his blessings as he lurches to his feet and nearly falls into the toilet in his haste to relieve himself. Once he isn’t in any more danger and he’s got a glass of water to chug with such fervor that it dribbles down his chin, Lance shuffles back out of the bathroom to squint at the scene before him.

 

A shirtless Hunk, one hand scratching at his bare chest.

 

A mound of blankets and pillows, stuffed between the two beds, pinning a deeply snoring Pidge beneath it all.

 

A sprawling Keith, shirt hiked up and legs propped up on Pidge’s duvet mountain, one hand trailing over the wrinkled sheets where Lance had once been sleeping. 

 

“Hm,” says Lance, and then he drinks the rest of his water and goes to get a refill.

 

When he returns once again, Hunk is sniffling wetly in his shallow sleep, Keith has rolled over to spoon a spare pillow, and Pidge is still questionably alive. The red numbers on the hotel clock read 7:40. Given their sloppy state, Lance decides to let them sleep in. Nobody said they have to be anywhere that day, and they  _ are _ only six hours out of New York. They don’t have to slog through early morning post-drinking routines like Lance does.

 

There’s a gentle knock at the door. Lance chugs as much water as he can in the time it takes him to open it. The hallway is brightly lit from the east-facing windows, and Shiro is standing there, gaze flicking down at the bar clothes Lance apparently hadn’t changed out of last night. Meanwhile, Shiro is looking fresh-faced and keen, dressed for a morning run. Lance honestly can’t tell whether the pounding behind his eyes is because of the sunlight or Shiro. 

 

“I was just wondering if Keith is in here,” says Shiro, voice automatically lowering when he peers into the shadows of the hotel room. 

 

Lance looks over his shoulder. Keith is invisible now that Lance’s eyes have adjusted to the hallway, but a stripe of light falls on Pidge’s fingers. He looks back at Shiro with a tired grin.

 

“Still sleeping,” he says apologetically. “I don’t think he’s up for a run.”

 

Shiro’s eyebrows twitch up. “I didn’t think so. I was just wondering where he ended up.”

 

“No dumpster diving for people today, unfortunately.” Someone grunts from within the depths of the room, and a mattress creaks. “Oh, right, Pidge is here too, if you see Allura first.”

 

“Ah, right,” says Shiro, and then he’s reaching for his phone sitting in a velcroed pocket on his upper arm. 

 

Lance is honestly befuddled as he watches Shiro tap at the screen, but before he can ask, there’s a low groan ending on a grunt, and then Hunk is on his feet and swaying. Lance watches Hunk brace an arm against the wall as he shuffles towards the bathroom. Then the light from the hallway falls on him, and Lance sees his eyes—puffy, red, still leaking tears that glimmer as Hunk squints at them in the doorway.

 

“Oh, good morning,” he croaks, voice scratchy and hoarse.

 

Lance stares. “Hey. You okay?”

 

Hunk looks confused, until he pats a wet cheek with his hand. “Oh, yeah,” he says, groggily wiping the tears away, which still concerns Lance until he watches the smile that rises on Hunk’s face. “Just a bad dream.”

 

“Do… you wanna talk about it?” asks Lance hesitantly.

 

“Nah,” breathes Hunk, smile widening, “but I’m thinking it doesn’t really matter anymore. Thanks.”

 

Lance blinks as Hunk sidles into the bathroom. “You’re… welcome?”

 

Lance looks back at Shiro, whose eyes have been following Hunk with some concern. Their gazes meet, they share a shrug, and Shiro finishes with his phone and tucks it back into its sleeve.

 

“Right, so, I let Allura know Pidge is fine,” says Shiro, voice nearing normal volumes as the bathroom fan runs. 

 

“You have Allura’s number?” asks Lance casually.

 

He expects Shiro to nod as if it isn’t a big deal, or act like it’s an obvious thing because  _ of course _ he would have Allura’s number, why wouldn’t he? Instead, Lance is treated to the reddening of Shiro’s face and the swift aversion of his eyes. Naturally, Lance stares. 

 

“Yeah, I got it yesterday,” says Shiro, and then he clears his throat and adds, “I’m going to go for my run. See you later.”

 

Lance continues to stare even as Shiro pivots and marches off to the stairwell.  _ Interesting. _

 

He closes the door just as Hunk is emerging from the bathroom, face damp and clean from a brisk wash. His eyes are still pink and swollen, but his smile is genuine and eases Lance’s concerns. 

 

“How’s your head?” asks Lance.

 

“Better than my stomach,” admits Hunk, rubbing his belly with a soothing hand. “I’m craving cucumber sandwiches.”

 

“That’s oddly specific. Nothing greasy?”

 

“Crisp, fresh, soothing.” Hunk sighs wistfully.

 

“Something tells me they’re not going to have cucumber sandwiches downstairs,” says Lance. He claps a hand on Hunk’s bare shoulder. “Better luck next time, man.”

 

“I should start making post-bar snacks for the morning after,” says Hunk as he drags his feet back to his bed and starts hunting through the tangle of sheets for his clothes. He pauses just as Keith rolls over, still spooning the lone pillow on the other bed. 

 

“Oh yeah, Pidge and Keith slept over,” mentions Lance breezily, walking over to nudge Pidge’s only visible extremity with his foot. Without a sound, her hand is retracted back under the duvet and pillow mountain. 

 

Hunk blinks rapidly at the mound. “Oh. I forgot about that.”

 

Lance looks at him quizzically. “Hm?”

 

“Smothering her,” says Hunk, gesturing at the heap, “with all the blankets. She didn’t move and fell asleep like that. Remember?”

 

“Wow.” The memory trickles back, pixelated and fuzzy. He isn’t sure what he’s making up using Hunk’s words, but Lance thinks he recalls Pidge losing at Cheat and flinging herself to the floor to sulk about it. Five minutes later, she still hadn’t risen, so they tucked her in.  _ Tucked _ being a subjective descriptor. “Right. Her poker face is trash when she’s drunk.”

 

“So bad,” agrees Hunk, finding and donning a rumpled shirt. “Yours was amazingly inconsistent—it was impossible to tell what was fake and what was real.”

 

Lance snorts a laugh. “Thank you. I can’t fake a straight face for the life of me.”

 

“Nah, you’re surprisingly good at that.”

 

“I am?” Lance blinks at Hunk, who grins awkwardly.

 

“Er, yeah?” He shrugs. “Well, more like you’re good at redirecting.”

 

“Oh. Huh.”

 

“It’s not a bad thing!” adds Hunk hastily.

 

Lance shakes his head and says, “No, no, it’s fine! I just—yeah, I didn’t expect that. Huh. Well, you’re pretty good at—”

 

His words are cut off by a pillow square to the face. The shock more than the insignificant pain draws an indignant squawk out of him. He rounds on Keith, who is scowling groggily at him—disgustingly cute—with an elbow tucked beneath his ribs to prop him up.

 

“Do you have to talk so  _ loud?” _ croaks Keith. 

 

Hunk smothers a giggle with his hand as Lance wastes no time marching over to the bed. Before Keith can react—Lance is definitely taking advantage of his sleep-slow processing—Lance has a grip on his ankles and is wrenching him off the bed. Limbs start flailing immediately as the support vanishes from beneath Keith. One hand grabs at Pidge’s pile and tears it down, much to her ire if the muffled groaning from beneath is anything to go by. 

 

Once he’s destroyed their peaceful morning, Lance steps back, hands on his hips, to stand beside Hunk who is tugging a t-shirt over his head. “ _ I’m _ feeling like saluting the sun, so I’m going to go butcher some yoga poses outside. Who’s in?”

 

“Me,” yawns Hunk. “You might pull something.”

 

“Hey—! Okay, fair. You two?”

 

Pidge says...something. It’s hard to tell. Keith is eyeing the pillow he chucked with his eyebrows drawn together. Lance snaps his fingers to summon the other young man’s attention.

 

“Hello? Yoga?” Lance hikes up a foot, planting it on his opposite knee. Almost instantly he topples, but Hunk is there to hold him upright. 

 

Keith doesn’t look impressed, but he does say, “Sure.” before rolling slowly towards the end of the bed. Pidge says something else. Probably a curse.

 

“Since this is now a democracy and majority rules…” Lance begins digging through the blankets, tossing them back onto their respective beds—or the floor in the case of the mysterious extras. Keith barely escapes being buried alive as Lance uncovers a fluffy-haired, ragged, hungover Pidge.

 

She glares up at him. “I  _ will _ kill you.”

 

Lance kneels down in front of her with a smile and says, “Time for sun salutations, tiny child with the alcohol tolerance of a hamster.”

 

“Do you have objective proof of drunk hamsters—”

 

“Get up,” groans Lance, enlisting the help of Hunk to drag Pidge’s deadweight into a vertical position. Keith is breathing deeply, one arm limp and arced towards the carpet. Lance aims a kick at his foot as he hefts Pidge towards the door.

 

It takes another ten minutes of dragging, coercing, and colourful mumbled insults courtesy of Pidge before they reach the parking lot. By then, Pidge is reluctantly on her feet, clutching a water bottle Hunk nabbed from a vending machine. Keith has closed his eyes to the sun, expression at peace. Lance and Hunk herd them readily onto the warming pavement, where the latter takes up his position standing in front of them. 

 

Lance realizes rather quickly that his balance has been compromised, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. At least he’s doing better than Keith, who seems to be considering peacefully dueling the sun—and Pidge, who stopped at child’s pose and hasn’t gotten up since.

 

Despite his students’ limited receptivity, Hunk goes through the motions elegantly and with a small smile on his face that offsets the swell surrounding his eyes. In the days Lance has known him, he doesn’t think he’s seen such a peaceful look on the man’s face. Before he even notices it himself, Lance is dropping his hands back into mountain pose with a smile of his own.

 

When Shiro returns from his jog, the rest are waiting for him in the dining hall, cramped at a round table with space made for him. Pidge is inhaling coffee like it’ll cure her hangover—it won’t—while Keith and Lance race to see who can finish their toast first, and Hunk watches them serenely, though now without a slight degree of pity when Lance chokes on crumbs. Allura greets Shiro with a smile, then returns to goading Pidge into eating something proper; her phone is nowhere to be found.

 

* * *

 

Hunk, after bearing witness to Lance’s questionable balance and reflexes, takes the first shift. As they drive past the botanical gardens, dense deciduous trees forming a wall of churning emerald leaves, Hunk blasts the radio. Sitting in the co-captain’s chair, Lance knows every song on the hit list by heart, and the moment he hears a song he doesn’t even like that much come blasting on mid-chorus—well, he’s the first to belt along to it. Yelling to the lyrics, the windows down, the body of the bus filled with a fresh whirlwind of air, Lance feels in his element. Shortly after, Allura’s crystal clear soprano joins his shoddy and enthusiastic alto. She doesn’t know half the lyrics, but she makes up for it with zeal, laughing over every stumbled lyric and the incredulous smile of Shiro as even he catches on to the chorus. 

 

By the time the next song begins, Blue is jetting down the interstate towards New York, six young adults drowning out the music with an acapella garage band of their own. 

 

Lance has never been happier, and he suspects neither has anyone else in the bus.

 

* * *

 

The scenery is primarily various maples, oaks and fruit trees. There’s something addictive about the colour—bright and vivid, a long stretching cluster of greens that tempt Lance to call for a break on the side of the highway. It’s soothing watching the forest whip by. He’s half listening to the conversations behind him as the first buildings of the next city begin appearing. Keith and Shiro are talking about mixed martial arts and the pros and cons of each; Pidge and Allura have fallen into a discussion about the power of technology in business. Beside Lance, Hunk is murmuring lyrics to a song with a beat he can barely keep up with.

 

Eventually he gives up with a sigh, then catches Lance looking at him and grins sheepishly. “So, we’re about halfway to New York.”

 

Lance looks at the time. They’ve been driving for a little under three hours. It doesn’t feel quite that long—maybe it has something to do with the number of people in the bus, the constant chatter and giggles, the occasional argument between Lance and Keith, or Pidge and Hunk. He casts his gaze back out as the forest halts at the bank of a wide river. The air whipping through the window is a little cooler on the bridge.

 

“Maybe we should stop for lunch?” suggests Hunk.

 

“I’m up for eating,” says Pidge from the back. 

 

Lance thinks of the bus slowly emptying of its passengers and says, “I’m down for diner food.”

 

“Sit in? Sounds good,” agrees Allura, and she’s followed by a small chorus of assent.

 

Settling on a place to stop is another story altogether. It takes ten minutes of passing places, Pidge declaring they look too greasy, Hunk mumbling about indigestion, and a host of other varied complaints, but eventually they stop at a place with black and white tile and red booths. They shove themselves into a round booth, Hunk and Shiro getting booted to chairs. The menu itself is basic; milkshakes, fries and hamburgers, sandwiches with toothpicks, and all day breakfast. 

 

Lance orders himself a three course meal. It has the desired effect of dragging out their lunch break, but also turns into a rolling mass of regret shortly after they pay. Lance hovers in the diner bathroom, waiting for the next uncertain heave of his stomach while Hunk runs off to find medicine. 

 

The door swings open when Lance is in the midst of pacing. He freezes mid step, then relaxes and continues when he realizes it’s just Shiro. The hunch of his shoulders exaggerates a little further.

 

“Sorry,” says Lance with a grimace. 

 

Shiro shakes his head with a rueful grin. “It’s fine. You can never really tell when something isn’t going to sit well.”

 

“Your driver getting too closely acquainted with a diner’s toilet bowl wasn’t really part of the plan.”

 

“I should hope not,” snorts Shiro. A hand extends out to slow Lance’s pacing. “Don’t worry about it. Hunk will be back any minute.”

 

“My saviour.” Lance inhales deeply in an attempt to settle his stomach. It doesn’t work. Shiro’s hand drops, and he resumes walking the short distance between sink and dryer. In an effort to distract himself, Lance shoots Shiro a sly look. “So. This morning.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You have Allura’s phone number.”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Shiro suddenly has a great interest in the facet. “Well, it’s not a big deal.”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

Shiro’s mouth twitches. “Pidge stole your number the minute you booked it to the bathroom, and she passed it around to everyone.”

 

“She—?” Lance blinks, then sighs. The breath doesn’t sit well. He pats his belly as he continues meandering. At least Pidge isn’t mucking around with his settings—except she probably has.

 

“Sorry,” says Shiro, though he doesn’t look apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“No, but…” Lance pauses to grin at him. “You got Allura’s number before anyone else. When did you get it? At the lake? Did you ask her? What was your excuse? Did you ask her out on a date?”

 

Shiro, somehow, maintains his composure. His complexion, on the other hand, runs wild on its own. He holds it together for a moment longer, but Lance watches it crumple.

 

“I didn’t ask her out,” says Shiro with more dignity than Lance deems fair. “We were talking about good street food and she mentioned a vendor that frequents where she works. I said we should drop by sometime. It kind of just naturally fell that way.”

 

“You smooth bastard,” says Lance with an impressed whistle. Shiro shoots him a look but it doesn’t have any heat in it, mellowed as it is by the persistent smile tugging at his lips.

 

“And you?” asks Shiro, eyebrows raising.

 

Lance mimics his expression. “What about me?”

 

“You and Keith,” clarifies Shiro, causing Lance to choke on his next inhale. “You two I’ve noticed have gotten awfully close. I mean, is there something going on there?”

 

Unable to completely deny it sends Lance into a downward spiral of sputters, stammers, and embarrassed twittering. Shiro begins to look legitimately concerned when Lance clutches his stomach, and then Hunk is finally bursting in with medicine swinging in hand.

 

The whole time, from taking the medicine to emerging from the bathroom with a fresh sense of humility, Lance can’t stop thinking about the  _ something _ that Shiro made reference to. Was there a something? He can’t be sure. There was the kiss, sure, but neither he nor Keith have tried instigating a conversation about it. Sometimes Lance thinks that there’s softer edges to Keith’s rebukes when they argue, but he can’t be certain he’s not overthinking things. 

 

When he walks out of the diner with Hunk and Shiro, Lance’s gaze is immediately drawn to where Keith lounges against Blue’s open door. His face brightens when they appear. Lance feels warm and fuzzy and his gut churns slowly in a way he isn’t entirely sure has nothing to do with the food or medicine. He gulps, and tries to instill confidence into his voice.

 

“Let’s hit the road, folks!” chirps Lance, and flounces with purpose around to the driver’s side. Keith wordlessly claims the front passenger seat. Lance pretends he doesn’t take undue notice of it. 

 

The door shuts behind Shiro as he clambers in last, and Lance turns in his seat to crack a joke about gastrointestinal issues—and then his gaze falls on the bucket. Honestly, he forgot about it, but now it’s sitting front and center and filled with money. From loose coins to crumpled bills, there’s enough spare change for gas to last an entire road trip across the country. The crisp fifty dollar bill especially leaves him gaping. Lance looks up to blink at everyone. Somehow, their smiles match.

 

“Figured we’d pool resources while you were...occupied,” smiles Allura.

 

“There’s a few Canadian loonies in there,” says Pidge. “Just so you’re aware.”

 

“And maybe an arcade token or two,” adds Hunk.

 

Lance snorts, giving the edge of the bucket a soft prod. “Thanks, you guys.”

 

“We kind of owe you for driving us so far,” Shiro points out.

 

“Yeah, well.” Lance finds the act of them collecting funds far more gratifying than the actual money collected. “Thanks.”

 

“You said that,” snorts Keith. “But. You’re welcome.”

 

Lance swats at him, but it’s got no power behind it, and Keith grins and gives him a friendly cuff to the arm right back.

 

* * *

 

Lance looks through the rearview mirror at his array of friends. “Alright, we’re nearing the city soon. I’m gonna need some addresses.” He lifts his phone from the cupholder and hands it to Keith to type into the GPS. “Shiro, you said you were a little out of the city, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Shiro leans forward, one hand on the back of Keith’s seat. “I’m staying with a buddy in Newark.”

 

“I’m in Sunnyside,” says Hunk.

 

“Hell’s Kitchen,” pipes up Pidge.

 

Allura takes a beat longer to say, “I’m meeting a friend in the financial district.”

 

“Nice.” 

 

The flow of the exchange stutters to a halt. Lance shoots a glance in Keith’s direction a couple times; the other man is looking down at the phone screen, unfocused. Lance frowns at the stretch of highway in front of him.

 

“Uh, Keith?” prompts Hunk.

 

“Huh? What?” Keith blinks around at the others. 

 

Lance arches an eyebrow. “Your neighbourhood?”

 

“Oh. Uh.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Remember… when you asked me where I was going?”

 

“Yeah, I think? You said— Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Pidge wrinkles her nose. “ _ What?” _

 

Keith shifts again. Lance flexes his fingers on his steering wheel as he says, “Keith doesn’t exactly have a place to stay.”

 

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” says Pidge immediately. “You can stay with me and Matt. There’s a futon in the living room. Not much space otherwise, but it’s fine.”

 

“I could ask my buddy if he’s got space,” offers Shiro, “but it would have to be temporary.”

 

“I’m sure I could open some space for you,” begins Allura.

 

“I have a futon, too!” adds Hunk. “I might be able to hook you up with a part-time job, too.”

 

“That’s cheating, Hunk,” sniffs Pidge.

 

Allura laughs. “A bed  _ and _ a job. Hunk is competitive.”

 

“I’m almost jealous,” says Shiro jokingly.

 

Lance says nothing, his heart beating closer to his throat at the thought. Living with Keith? He would probably die—but all their new friends stumbling over each other to offer him a place to live? That warms Lance right to his toes. Even his eyes feel as though they’re heating up, which is  _ silly _ , but once again he acknowledges what a good group of people he’s chanced upon. He glances at Keith, curious about his expression.

 

His heart really does jam itself into his throat then. The risk to look longer claws at him, but Lance forces himself to pay attention to the road. Unlike Lance, Keith isn’t able to hold back the warmth in his eyes. Lance can’t blame him—the offers, utterly lacking in hesitation, are genuine. Then Lance, like Keith, is smiling at the road, and that smile keeps growing until he can’t contain his happiness anymore, and it escapes him in a laugh. 

 

“That’s quite a list of options you’ve got going,” says Lance, seeing Keith look at him in his periphery. “What d’you say?”

 

“Bed and a job,” repeats Hunk, forming scales with his hands, “or weird Pidge tech talk all night, braiding Allura’s hair in lieu of rent, having to deal with Shiro comparing muscles with his friends?”

 

“Rude,” snorts Pidge, “but I can’t deny the possibility.”

 

“Is braiding my hair really that terrible?” laughs Allura.

 

Shiro just shrugs with a small grin, as if that’s an oddly accurate statement.

 

Keith says nothing for a moment longer as their giggles taper off, then Lance hears him inhale deep. “If it’s no trouble, Hunk, then—”

 

“Not at all!” Hunk bursts out.

 

“—then, yeah, I wouldn’t mind staying with you for a little while.”

 

Blue erupts in a wave of cheers; Lance bumps up the volume on the music and the noise naturally segs into an enthusiastic singalong.

 

* * *

 

It’s another half hour until Shiro leans forward to tell Lance to switch lanes in preparation for his exit. Then they’re decelerating along the off-ramp, framed by tall cement walls with the short tops of suburban trees peeking over. The houses are mismatched, some bungalows and others four stories tall, most coloured neutral creams and browns, while the odd structure stands out with vibrant yellow or blue panelling. Shiro gives Lance instructions, eyes on a list of directions his friend wrote out for him. The deeper he leads the bus into suburbia, the more restless Lance feels—until his fingers are drumming a beat on the steering wheel, and there’s a cold sweat gathering down his spine. 

 

Then he’s coming to a stop at a red brick house, the first floor windows covered by decorative white bars. Lance turns off the engine, and the music sounds a lot tinnier when it’s coming solely from his phone. He turns in his seat. Shiro is eyeing the house wearing a small smile. 

 

“Well, this is it,” says Shiro. Allura lays her hand on his shoulder and he turns to grin at them all. “It’s been a ride.”

 

He opens the door and steps out, and everyone else follows in hesitant, jolted movements. Hunk helps Shiro locate his bags. From the doorway to the house, a man leans out onto the first step and calls to Shiro, who greets him with a cheerful wave. Lance chews his lip as Shiro slings a bag over one shoulder and faces them once more. Lance is first to step forward and hug him, flinging long arms around the man and squeezing hard. The attempted force draws a laugh out of Shiro.

 

“Thanks for picking me up, Lance,” he says, clapping Lance’s back in that firm way men tend to do. It makes Lance feel sturdier, somehow. 

 

Lance can only nod in response, not quite trusting himself to speak. He steps back reluctantly, to be replaced by Pidge and Hunk, who take turns and then allow Keith to step up and awkwardly try to shake Shiro’s hand. It’s with a startled splutter that Keith is drawn into an embrace, Shiro almost laughing his amusement. Once Keith is released, pink in the face and looking bashful in a way that Lance shamelessly adores, Shiro is barely given time to turn before Allura is there.

 

All eyes are on them, including the man in the doorway watching everything, and Shiro looks uncertain—barely able to look the woman in the face—but Allura is unfazed. She smiles, one hand raising to to cradle Shiro’s jaw and Shiro—bless the man—is already going beet red even before Allura plants a chaste kiss on his cheek. 

 

The shakey, shy smile Shiro gives her sees the rest of the crew turning into a sliding scale from rose to fuchsia. Clearing his throat, he grabs his last bag and starts backpedaling towards the chainlink gate. 

 

“See you guys,” he says, smile widening, and spins around as his friend comes out to help him. 

 

They return to the bus, Keith alone in the back seat, but Lance doesn’t peel away from the curb until the front door closes behind Shiro. 

 

* * *

 

It takes a solid forty minutes from Newark to edge into New York, the bus hitting traffic right as they cross the border outside the Lincoln Tunnel. The overhead lights, dim and warm, create a wholly different atmosphere from the rest of their trip. At the wheel, Lance struggles to ward off the heavy bobbing of his eyelids as traffic crawls in the darkness, the tunnel lit a glowing red by all the brake lights ahead. To help him, Hunk puts on some Queen, shooting them all into another rendition of We Are The Champions. 

 

When they finally exit the tunnel, it’s to a horizon dominated by skyscrapers. Hunk whistles low, and when Lance looks through the the rearview, Pidge is staring hard at the architecture, Keith is nervously glancing through every possible window, and Allura’s face has become something akin to bored. The gap Shiro left behind, in that moment, becomes glaringly obvious. 

 

Lance purses his lips and looks forward again. Pidge’s directions are few and far between—her destination is relatively close. The restlessness, while never having left, is slightly less detrimental. The distractions of the city help a little; a man plays the electric violin at one stoplight, prompting Hunk to pause the music as they listen through open windows, while at one corner two women try desperately to get their dogs to stop humping each other. Then suddenly the apartment buildings stop, and while there are more tall buildings on the distant horizon, the structures before them six stories tall at most. 

 

“Oh, turn here,” says Pidge abruptly, prompting Lance to take a hasty and rather unsafe turn onto a narrow street with parked cars on either curb. 

 

The apartments are all deep red brick, copy and pasted on the entire block and the one after too, with iron fire escapes. Pidge tells him to keep going until they pass a parkette on the verge of being overgrown by ivy.

 

“Four twenty-five,” mumbles Pidge on repeat until Hunk spots the number on an awning. “Okay, I texted Matt that we were almost here so he should be coming down to let me in.” She grabs the handle and yanks the door open, hopping out first. “Holy shit, this place  _ stinks.” _

 

“It smells like the city,” says Lance.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“ _ Katie!”  _ The group looks up at an unruly-haired young man hanging half out of a window on the fourth floor. He beams down at them, glasses glinting. “Hold on, I’ll come down!”

 

And then he’s gone, Pidge shaking her head in amusement. Lance is at the trunk first, lifting a mound of loose clothes so Pidge can yank out her backpack. It hits the ground and her shin with a muffled clatter from within.

 

“Shit, ow,” she sighs.

 

Lance reaches for a forgotten hoodie, adding it to Pidge’s load. “Maybe that’s a sign you shouldn’t have brought an entire deconstructed robot instead of clothes.”

 

“It would have been  _ far _ more expensive buying these parts,” sniffs Pidge, “as opposed to buying a new wardrobe from the thriftstore.”

 

“Sounds about right,” agrees Hunk.

 

“Blasphemers,” hisses Lance.

 

The front door bursts open, allowing a taller, ganglier version of Pidge to bounce down to where they’re gathered on the curb. “Katie!”

 

Pidge grins. “Matt!”

 

“Katie!”

 

“Matt!”

 

They embrace with wide swinging arms and a double pat for either sibling’s back. Matt steps back first to look at the group of four hovering by the open trunk. Lance clears his throat.

 

“I’m the driver,” says Lance, giving Blue a pat on the tail light. 

 

Matt quirks an eyebrow. “The one who picks up random hitchhikers?” he asks, but he’s grinning.

 

“Hey,” says Lance with a casual wave of his hand. “Pidge promised not to axe murder me, who am I to decline?”

 

“There were a few close calls,” adds Pidge.

 

Matt chortles and claps his sister on the shoulder. “I’m glad everything worked out. Did you guys want to stay for a bit?”

 

It’s tempting, but Lance already feels like an intruder in the midst of a sibling reunion. He grins and shakes his head.

 

“No thanks,” he says, and then he sees the way Pidge’s gaze flicks to the ground. 

 

It’s a split second movement, gone in an instant, but Lance is a professional in the art of nanosecond expressions. He’s also no stranger to disappointment. 

 

“Another time,” adds Lance, “when we’re not so busy.”

 

Pidge’s eyes are locked on him, no wider than before, but her entire face softens into a genuine smile. “You better.”

 

“I’ll hold you to it,” says Matt cheerfully. “Come on, Pidge, let’s get your stuff up. There’s a couple people I want you to meet.”

 

He grabs the biggest bag and nearly buckles under the weight. With a laugh, Pidge takes it from him and offers him the loose clothes instead. At the door, Matt turns to wave at them, and then steps in to hold it open for his sister. Pidge pauses at the threshold, her back to her friends lingering by Blue. Then she hitches the backpack up higher, back straightening even under the weight, and disappears after her brother. 

 

Lance takes a little longer to return to the driver’s seat. When he does, the remaining three are already buckled in and waiting. He doesn’t look through the rearview—he doesn’t want to see the empty seats in the back.

 

* * *

 

The buildings grow taller and gleam brighter as the bus rolls into the ritzier part of town. The sidewalks seem to be in a perpetual state of business, the foot traffic flowing heedlessly from block to block. Lance can’t help but think they’re all part of a hivemind as he watches, following invisible lanes and knowing just when to slow or speed up to exit the stream. 

 

The mess of one-ways confuses Lance to no end, and eventually he turns off his data to save himself a hefty bill, and he follows Allura’s instructions without question. He isn’t sure why she didn’t want him to drop her off directly at her home, but with every turn that brings them nearer to Wall Street, he begins to wonder. 

 

When her phone starts buzzing, she sighs and points at the next intersection. “Keep going straight, please, this call will be brief.”

 

Lance slows down slightly, just in case, as he rolls through. Keith is engrossed in staring through the sunroof while Hunk seems just as politely baffled by their route as Lance. Behind them, Allura answers the call with a quick, “ _ Yes?” _

 

Hunk and Lance exchange surprised looks at her exasperation.

 

“I’m nearly there,” she continues. “No. Yes. I’m fine, of  _ course _ . Please keep your mothering for when I’m actually  _ there _ .” 

 

Lance stares straight ahead. Every building down the block is sporting an American flag, buffeting in the breeze. A crowd of men dressed in suits the exact same shade of navy blue enter a bank all at once. 

 

“Coran,  _ please _ , I’ve already told you, I’m not a child. No—” And her voice goes hush, but she might as well have yelled. “—I don’t regret not taking the jet, I’ve told you.”

 

Lance can see Hunk sending him furtive looks in his periphery. It takes immense willpower not to meet him glance for glance.

 

“I was very comfortable—Coran! Coran, please. Look, I’m at the building now. Meet me in the lobby before you get your moustache in a twist.”   
  
Allura hangs up with a long-suffering sigh. The only buildings in the immediate vicinity belong to a major pharmaceutical company, one of the largest media corporations in the West, a bank and a multinational business conglomerate. Lance looks between them all helplessly, suddenly feeling  _ very _ small. 

 

“Right here is fine, Lance,” says Allura, jolting Lance into nearly swerving into the curb. 

 

Jerkily, he comes to a stop behind a Lexus letting out a man with the shiniest briefcase Lance has ever seen. Lance is suddenly very aware of his scuffed shoes. He stares as the man marches with purpose towards the conglomerate. 

 

“That’s Paul,” says Allura rather boredly. “He has five parrots at home and keeps showing everyone pictures of them when he’s not overseeing the legal team.”

 

“Allura,” squeaks Hunk. “Who are you, exactly?”

 

Lance just catches her expression—irritated before sliding into bored—as she pulls open the door. “Allura. That’s it.”

 

“Okay but—”

Hunk doesn’t get a chance to say anything more when Allura slams shut the door behind her. 

 

“I think she’s pissed,” notes Keith.

 

Hunk looks like he wants to bury himself alive, confused and horrified. Lance claps him on the shoulder.

 

“Let’s help her get her stuff out,” he suggests.

 

The road is so busy and cramped that Lance ends up waiting until Hunk is out before climbing over the gearshift. He joins the rest around the back, where Allura is gathering her things, stiff-jointed and frowning.

 

Hunk, wringing out his hands, hesitantly says, “Um, Allura. I’m sorry if I was… insensitive?”

 

Allura drops all her bags onto the sidewalk with a loud  _ thump _ , causing the boys to jump. Keith is eyeing her cautiously, looking torn between backing up and standing his ground. Meanwhile, Lance is concerned that she’s seriously insulted. The thought of them parting on bad terms is a thousand pinpricks along his spine. 

 

After a long moment, Allura heaves a sigh. “No, I’m sorry for snapping. It’s just I was really enjoying myself during the trip and I—well, I didn’t want you all to treat me differently just because I’m…” She waves a hand at the skyscraper, gleaming in the evening sun. “...The daughter of the CEO.”

 

“Oh,” says Lance intelligently. 

 

“Ah,” nods Hunk with equal cleverness.

 

“Why would we treat you differently?” asks Keith in honest confusion. Lance isn’t sure whether his stomach squeezes because he wishes he was the first to say that, or because he wants to nuzzle his face into his neck and praise him. He’s leaning towards the latter.

 

Hunk folds his arms across his chest. “That backstory is intimidating, Keith.”

 

Lance raises his hand. “I was already intimidated,” he admits, and shoots Allura an apologetic grin. “I mean, you’ve got the whole princess thing going on  _ anyway.” _

 

“Princess thing?” Allura looks between them all, brow furrowed but her face no longer drawn.

 

“ _ Oh _ ,” says Keith, “I kind of understand that, then.”

 

“ _ What?” _

 

Lance grins at her. “A princess with a knack for friendship bracelets and bead charms and nail art.”

 

“My favourite kind,” says Hunk with a beaming smile.

 

Amazingly, Allura flushes. Her smile is aimed down at her bags, but Lance sees it and nearly dives back into the bus to grab his phone for a picture. When she lifts her gaze, Allura looks sheepish. 

 

“Not a princess,” she says, “but I’m really glad I got to spend these past several days with the lot of you.” Her smile widens. “ _ Much _ more fun than a jet.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” laughs Lance. 

 

“Allura!”

 

They turn as one. A man with a phenomenal moustache and thick red hair is speedwalking out of the building, revolving door spinning madly behind him. He’s zeroed in on Allura, but Lance notices his gaze flick over to the size of the rest of them up.

 

“Allura,” he repeats, voice accented and strained. “You said you were going to meet me in the lobby, and I was waiting for you! I look outside and see you fraternizing with these—these  _ hooligans.” _

 

“Hooligans,” echoes Lance, trying not to snort while at the same moment feeling slightly offended. Keith does snort. Hunk makes an insulted noise. 

 

“Coran, please don’t be rude,” snaps Allura when he comes to a halt in front of her. “They’re very good friends.”

 

“Friends!” squawks Coran. “You’ve not known them for a week and now they’re  _ friends? _ How obtuse!”

 

Allura exhales loudly through her nose. “You met my father on a three day cruise, by the end of which you were promised as my godfather. You have no room to talk!”

 

“I—Your father and I—We—” Coran splutters indignantly a bit more before visibly deflating. “Yes, yes, you have a point. Will I continue to lecture you? Yes.”

 

“ _ Coran _ .”

 

“Will I rethink my assumptions about these hooligans?” continues Coran. “Also yes.”

 

“...Thanks,” says Lance.

 

“You’re quite welcome, my boy.”

 

Allura hides a smile with her hand. Before any of them have time to offer, Coran is swooping forward to grab as much of Allura’s things as he humanly can. He staggers under the weight, and pretends not to notice when Allura unhooks one of the heavier pieces of luggage and kicks out a set of wheels. Wishing them a brisk farewell, Coran begins his march back into the building. 

 

As her godfather struggles with the revolving door, Allura turns to look at the rest of the group. “Thank you for everything. I look forward to our next road trip.”

 

Her eyes glitter mischievously, and then she’s swooping in to hug them all, even capturing a startled Keith. With a final wave of her hand, Allura is whisking off towards the steel and glass of her father’s company. Lance no longer feels underdressed and homely. 

 

Lance, Hunk and Keith return to the bus. Lance settles in the driver’s seat once more and when the doors are shut, there’s a drawn out moment of silence. 

 

Then, sounding a little impressed, Hunk says, “Does Shiro know his future girlfriend is the daughter of a billionaire conglomerate?”

 

“Is she like, the  _ heir?” _ murmurs Lance.

 

“Who cares?” asks Keith.

 

Lance twists in his seat to stare at Keith. “This is the  _ best _ plot twist, Keith. Of course I care.”

 

“But it’s  _ Allura _ .” Keith shifts under Lance’s fixed gaze. “Just Allura.”

 

“ _ Yes _ , just Allura,” says Lance. “Billionaire, beauty, crafting extraordinaire.”

 

Keith frowns at that. 

 

“I’m just saying,” continues Lance, “she’s got a lot going on and I love her for it.”

 

His frown only deepens. 

 

“It’s not like we’re suddenly objectifying her,” adds Hunk. “It’s just fun to think how Shiro would react to meeting Coran.”

 

“I love it already,” splutters Lance as he faces forward.

 

Hunk and Lance continue theorizing Shiro meeting the family, but it doesn’t escape Lance’s notice when Keith lapses into a silence not even the radio can fill.

 

* * *

 

It takes a bit of convincing, but Lance eventually gets Hunk to stop suggesting to just drop them off somewhere along the way. Even if Sunnyside is out of his way, Lance doesn’t want the journey to end just yet. He’s barely occupying himself; hyping himself up for the new school year, what he might eat for dinner, the neighbourhood cat that always meows hello. Hunk’s added distraction is especially helpful—but all too soon he’s switching from chatting about all he’s heard about his new workplace to telling Lance where to park. The entire time, Keith is quiet.

 

Hunk peers out at the apartment building that is his new home—old brick, a fire escape zigzagging up the wall, trimmed hedges out the front. It’s a nice place, Lance admits, far better than what he expected given that Hunk only has a single backpack to his name. The image isn’t improved much by an equally sparsely packed Keith. 

 

Now, seeing them stand on the sidewalk beneath a tree, sunlight dappling their faces, Lance feels the ache he’s been fending off the entire day spread within his chest. He opens the back and starts lifting their bags from under the random loose sweaters he still hasn’t packed away. Hunk joins him not five seconds later, grabbing them both by the straps in one hand. Lance allows his hands to flop uselessly at his sides. His gaze drifts—naturally—to Keith, standing stock still, staring at the front of the apartment. Probably considering his new home. Probably experiencing nervous gut rot—or maybe that’s Lance projecting on him now. 

 

“Something wrong?” asks Hunk, effectively jolting Lance’s attention back.

 

“Uh,” says Lance.

 

Hunk, dangerously perceptive, raises his eyebrows and slowly looks over his shoulder at Keith. Lance grimaces.

 

Turning to hunch his shoulders towards the bus, Lance mumbles, “I think I have a massive crush on Keith.”

 

“You  _ what?” _ squawks Hunk, much too loudly. Lance flails his hands desperately at him, but Keith seems to be off in his own little world. Obediently lowering his voice, Hunk hisses, “You have a  _ crush _ on  _ Keith?” _

 

“ _ Yes,” _ Lance huffs back. 

 

“I thought you had a thing for Shiro—”

 

Lance can’t help it—he bursts out laughing. Hunk looks taken aback, even going so far as dropping the backpacks to the pavement.

 

“Sorry,” sniffs Lance, once he’s sort of gotten himself under control. “It’s just— _ yeah _ , but Shiro is like, celebrity status. Right up there with Allura, y’know? Keith is…  _ Keith _ .”

 

“I thought you said he wasn’t to your tastes,” whispers Hunk in confusion.

 

“I was  _ so wrong _ ,” admits Lance. “He’s pretty, and actually really sweet? And arguing with him is fun because it doesn’t feel serious. And he knows a lot about constellations and I didn’t think that was a kink a person could have but here I stand.”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“I know. Have you seen his sleeping face? I want to hold him.”

 

“ _ Oh my god.” _

 

“Plus I kissed him—”

 

Hunk  _ squeals _ , loud, and that draws Keith’s attention to them. Hunk, a man blessed and cursed in equal measure, clamps his mouth shut, smiles, and announces he’ll be leaving them to fetch the apartment key. Keith watches him practically flounce off, before blinking down at their abandoned bags.

 

“Um, I’ll just uh, follow him?” says Keith, grabbing a strap in either hand.

 

Immediately Lance panics and lunges forward to grab the straps too, clenching hard enough that Keith is stuck. He stares at Lance’s grip, mouth opening and closing like a fish. The gaze that levels with Lance is just as confused as he is. 

 

“This is me humiliating myself,” announces Lance.

 

“I see that,” says Keith.

 

“This is also me telling you to wait.”

 

“Without words,” notes Keith, but he waits for Lance’s grip to slacken before carefully lowering the bags down.

 

“Yeah, so.” Lance straightens up, studying the dappled patterns of light on the sidewalk. “I know we didn’t talk about what happened at the bar, but I want to. If you want to. I mean, we can pretend it never happened. If you’d prefer.” He realizes he’s taken a page from Hunk’s book and he’s wringing his hands out. Quickly he flattens them to his legs. 

 

“It was an accident,” says Keith.

 

Something very, very cold settles in Lance’s belly. He does his best not to let the sudden urge to sink into the earth become apparent on his face. “Right. An accident.”

 

The silence stretches between them like gum. Despite it, Keith doesn’t go to grab the backpacks again. Lance wishes he would. He also wishes he won’t. 

 

Then Keith exhales deeply, and the chill travels from Lance’s stomach to his heart. 

 

“It wasn’t!” he blurts out, gaze snapping up to bore into Keith’s startled eyes. “It wasn’t an accident! I mean—I meant to kiss your cheek but you turned your head and like, I was caught off guard but—but I don’t regret it! I liked it. I liked it a lot.” Lance takes a deep breath. “I like you a lot, too.”

 

Out of all the instances in which Lance watched Keith’s face turn red, this has got to be the record breaking fastest. He’s a lobster in an instant, and then there’s a trembling smile growing on his face, and then he’s  _ laughing _ , and Lance is staring and probably turning just as red—

 

“Why’d you say that while frowning?” splutters Keith.

 

Lance blinks. “What, sorry?”

 

“You’re frowning.” Keith snorts and lifts a hand, pressing his thumb to the crease between Lance’s eyebrows. “There. Better.”

 

Breathing is suddenly a privilege that Lance does not have. Keith’s thumb goes from smoothing Lance’s brow to tracing down towards his chin. The tip catches Lance’s bottom lip, and then at the last moment the hand is gone.

 

Keith clears his throat. “That’s good, though. I kind of liked it, too.” And his eyes on Lance are far too intense. “I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

 

_ I’m a dead man _ , thinks Lance.

 

“I’m a dead man,” says Lance, rather breathlessly.

 

Keith laughs. Lance is in awe of his smile.

 

“Back in Montana,” says Keith, “when you picked me up—it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Thanks.”

 

The warmth in his expression doesn’t disappear even when Hunk deems it safe to wander back outside. He notices Lance is busy being dumbstruck, but he scoops him up in a bear hug anyway and laughs when Lance notices and struggles to reciprocate. When it comes to Keith, Lance isn’t sure what to do—but Hunk solves that as well, drawing them in for a group hug. His embrace is tight, but it gives Lance the excuse of hugging Keith without having to wonder how long he’s supposed to hold on before it’s weird. 

 

“Lance— _ Lance _ ,” says Hunk until he’s gained the fool’s attention. He snorts and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger. I promised you food, didn’t I?”

 

“Definitely,” nods Lance fervently.

 

“Then food will be made.” Hunk beams. “I’m really glad I decided to walk down that highway, Lance. Really, super glad.”

 

Lance, to his credit, manages not to melt on the spot.

 

Hunk thanks Lance a few more times, and Keith does again once more, and then Lance is watching them trudge up into the apartment complex, hands cradling the ratty dolphin plushie on Blue’s keyring.

 

The door is swinging shut behind them, and Lance is turning back towards Blue, when there’s a thump and the hasty slap of shoes against concrete. Lance is stuck between walking and pivoting when Keith is standing in front of him, eyes wide and fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. They simply stare at each other, Lance struggling to regain his balance, while his heart flips like a circus performer in his chest.

 

“I didn’t do this properly,” says Keith by way of explanation, and then he flings his arms around Lance’s neck and draws him in close. 

 

Lance gets a faceful of hair that smells of sun and a little bit like his mother’s detergent—familiar and warm and good, all things that Lance has come to associate with Keith. The arms around his neck tighten slightly, uncertainly, and Lance slips his own around Keith to pull him in flush. 

 

Now he really does have to wonder how long a hug should last, but when it’s Keith in his arms, surely it doesn’t matter? 

 

Lance feels Keith laugh quietly against him. For whatever reason, Lance kind of wants to laugh, too. Instead, he just squeezes, buries his face into Keith’s neck, and convinces himself that this hug is the precursor to many, many more. 

 

It takes Hunk clearing his throat from the doorway for Keith to finally step back, Lance reluctantly letting him. They look at each other for one long, drawn out moment, Lance expects Keith to turn and leave—

 

—but instead Keith is stepping forward with a confidence Lance forgets he has, and lips are brushing over one burning cheek. When Lance’s eyes bob slowly, mouth gaping dumbly, Keith laughs one more time and then spins on his heel to return to an excitedly spectating Hunk.

 

The door closes behind them, and Lance squeezes the dolphin plushie so hard, one of its eyes nearly pops off.

 

* * *

 

Alone in the bus, Lance blasts music and sings at the top of his lungs. The windows are rolled down, the evening air is warm and the sun is strobing bright through trees and buildings. When he reaches his own neighbourhood, familiar cars lining familiar roads in front of familiar buildings, Lance can’t deny any longer that he’s lonely. Blue is too empty, and even belting out to Queen isn’t the same without five other voices joining in. Lance parks the bus and leaves it running until the song is done.

 

He tips his head back against the headrest. If he breathes deeply enough, he can sort of catch a whiff of Allura’s perfume, mixing with the body wash that Shiro and/or Pidge use. There’s another smell—maybe ketchup from a previous lunch? Lance twists in his seat and inhales. Perhaps it was from the diner. If there was any spilled on the seats, that’ll turn gross real fast. Lance is considering cleaning the fabric when he notices an off-colour Cyndaquil hanging from one of the cup holders. A misshapen Pikachu dangles from a half-finished bracelet in pink, purple and blue. The armrest in the middle seat is flecked with nail polish. Etched into the roof of the car, there’s several constellations, and one with a wonky  _ nya~ _ marked beside it. A tea towel Lance has never noticed before is pinned over one of the back windows, blocking sunlight for whomever had been napping in the back. 

 

A wave of nostalgia for a trip just ended envelops Lance so strongly and so suddenly that he feels heat press against his eyes. He sniffs, wipes the extra moisture away and unplugs his phone from the aux cord. Around the side of Blue, he pauses and looks down at the front wheel and every lug nut painted with its own face. 

 

The snort Lance releases nearly masks the sound of his phone pinging madly. Surprised, he unlocks the screen, notes first the connection to his WiFi, and then he’s laughing out loud. There’s tagged photos of himself courtesy of Pidge, a group chat that Hunk opened up ten minutes previous and is already full of memes, dad jokes, and sneaky photos of Coran, and a private text from Keith asking his opinion on sushi.

 

The ache in his chest, a little bit hollow and a lot cold, starts to fill bit by bit with warmth. It’s the end of the trip, sure, but the evidence of their time spent together is everywhere. It’s in the bus, in his hands pinging away, and particularly in the giddy feeling in his stomach. There’s more to look forward to: Allura taking them on a tour of her fancy office, Shiro’s adventures as a pilot, Hunk making real dinner, Pidge dragging them around during frosh week, and maybe—especially—a real date with Keith.

 

Lance is so absorbed replying that he trips up every step to his apartment.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now i'm. finally done with this one too. i'm sure there are things i wanted to say but _(:3」∠)_  
> esp thanks to [yui](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yuisaki) for reading over this last piece for Satisfaction Purposes™
> 
> now i'm outie for the weekend to celebrate canada's 150th birthday but i will reply to comments when i return!! i love you all!! thank you for reading!!!!!!! i can't believe it's finally done!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  ~~pls ignore the fact that i recently learned about the existence of em dashes~~  
> 
> 
> [my tumbubblr](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com)


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